THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 
OF  CIVIL  WAR  NO\TLS 
PRESENTED  BY 
RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


JOHK  GUILDERSTRIIG'S  SIN. 


21  UomI 


C.  FEEISrCH  EICHAKDS. 


He's  sowing  wild  oats, 
He'll  outgrow  his  sins, 
And  make  a  good  man  yet. 

Common  Saying. 

A  fallen  woman  is  shunned  by  the  good,  and  left  alone  with  her 
bitterness  and  shame  and  death.  Shall  men  be  guilty  of  like 
deeds,  and  not  suffer  like  degradation  ?    Ask  God  if  this  be  just ! 

Anon- 


^. 


NEW    YORK: 

Carle  ton,  Publisher^  4.13  Broadway. 

M  DCCC  LXIV. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1664,  by 

GEO.  W.  CAELETON, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 

District  of  New  York. 


&.    CBAIGHEAI), 

Primer,  Si-re(  typtr,  anfl  Electrotyper, 
Caiton  13uiltiing, 

SI.  S,  ond  85  Centre  Street  N.  Y 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

CHAPTER  I. 
Face  to  Face 7 

CHAPTER   II. 
Girlhood 10 

CHAPTER    III. 
A  Night  Adventure — "  She  was  beautiful,  but  lost,  lost." 15 

CHAPTER  IV. 
For  Ever,  and  Ever,  and  Ever 24 

CHAPTKR    Y. 
Charlotte  CI ey tone— Materia  Medica— The  Shadow  of  Death 31 

CHAPTER    VI. 
Over  the  River — I  become  Acquainted  with  my  Father 38 

CHAPTER    VII. 
The  Last  Days  at  the  Pines— My  Father's  Plan  for  my  Future 45 

CHAPTER    VIIL 
Watts's  Hymns— Going  out  from  Home.     Hoylestown  Seminary 51 

CHAPTER   IX. 
Last  Days  at  Mrs.  Osgood's— Annie  Glyde  and  I— Womanhood 58 

CHAPTER  X. 
Oak  Side— Annie  Glyde's  Lover— The  New  Tenant  in  the  Old  House  at  the 

Pines 63 

CHAPTER   XL 
The  Sweezey  Sisters— Mr.  Jamieson 72 

CHAPTER    XII. 
Annie  Glyde's  Trouble — The  Somnambulist 79 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
Aunt  Dinah's  Fright — Old  Christopher 86 

CHAPTER    XIV. 
Thirteen  at  Table— Who  came  to  my  Father's  Dinner-Party , . . . .      94 

CHAPTER    XV. 
Deacon  Mudge's  Superstition— John  Guilderstring's  Confession 102 

CHAPTER   XVI. 
The  War  of  Sweezey  versus  Jamieson— The  Incidents  of  an  Afternoon Ill 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
A  Jealous  Love 119 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
Hopkins's  Mills— What  John  Guilderstring'said  to  me — Wait 126 


808673 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PACK 

CHAPTER   XIX. 
The  Mill — Tennyson— An  Encounter— William  liartless 1:33 

ClIAPTKR   XX. 
The  Fire — Doubtinga — A  Hound  on  the  Track — Suspicion 141 

CH. AFTER   XXI. 
The  Furnace  of  Fire — Old  Christopher  at  the  Grove 149 

CFIAPIER    XXII. 
Fleeing  from  ^lyself— The  Storm  and  the  Curse— The  Accusing  Finger  and 

John  Guilderstring's  Confession — Old  Christopher's  Death  155 

CHAI^ER  XXIII. 
Foi  Ever  and  Evermore— Sick  unto  Death — Jemima  Sweezey — A  Philosophic 

Lover 164 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
Tlie  Diary  and  Letters— Charlotte  Cleytone'a  Fall — .John  Guilderstring's  Sin 

—Annie  Clyde's  ■\Vedding 175 

CHAPTER   XXY. 
The  Doubting  Bride — An  Accidental  Wound — The  Walking  Dreamer — Mar- 
riage and  Death — Alone  1S2 

CHAPTER    XXVI. 
Annie  Clyde's  Honeymoon— My  Cousin  Lucy— Mrs.  Whipple  finds  a  Lover — 

What  True  Love  is 1S9 

CHAPTER   XXVII. 
A  Family  Secret — The  River  of  Death  Flows  between  Two  Hearts— My  Little 

Charge 196 

CHAPTER   XXVIII. 
Three  Years  After — The  Proposal— Cousin  Lucy's  Lover 202 

CHAPTER    XXIX. 
The  Girl  that  did  not  believe  in  Love  caught  in  the  Meshes— The  Lovers 208 

CHAPTER   XXX. 
A  Letter — Gone  into  Battle — The  Gloom — What  my  Heart  said  unto  my  Hands    215 

CHAPTER    XXXI. 
Mrs.   Whipple's  Departure- News — The  Parting— Knitting  Socks — Gone  to 

the  War 221 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 
In  the  Hospital— The  Battle— Captain  Courtenay's  Wound— My  Confession. .     227 

CHAPTER   XXXIII. 
The  Enemy's  Retreat — Number  23 — William  Hartless — I  have  told  God  only— 
In  his  Arms— The  Meeting  of  Lips  and  the  Parting  on  the  Shores  of 
Time 234 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
life's  Afternoon— Conclusion 241 


JOHN  GUILDEESTRING'S  SIN. 


CHAPTER    I. 

Face  to  Face. 


I— that  egotistical  I— first  person  singular,  feminine 
—for  I  am  a  feminine  woman— let  that  be  distinctly 
understood  on  my  debut  into  the  world  of  feminine 
men  and  masculine  women— I  am  a  woman.     That 
one  expressive  dissyllable  contains,  compressed  within 
its  limits,  the  essence  of  a  type  of  excellence  that  I 
may  not  have  attained ;  and  in  claiming  the  conven 
tional  phrase,  I  do  not  pretend  to  the  exalted  idea  of 
perfection  which  men  of  sentiment  and  poetry  asso- 
ciate with  it.     I  am  merely  a  woman,  whom  God  in 
His  good  providence  has  seen  fit  to  bring  forth  out 
of  human  chaos,  endowed  with  all  the  passions,  frail- 
ties, and  human  nature  that  constitute  flesh  and  blood, 
and  form  an  ingredient  in  all  character. 

In  adopting  the  first  person,  let  me  not  be  accused  of 
egotism.     I  have  always  maintained  that,  in  literature 


0  FACE   TO   FACE. 

as  well  as  in  diplomacy,  there  is  nothing  to  be  gained 
in  veiling  one's  self  under  the  obscurity  of  a  second 
personage.  I  prefer  meeting  the  public  face  to  face, 
clothed  only  in  my  own  individuality.  It  certainly 
will  lend  a  charm  to  our  intercourse  that  otherwise 
would  be  lacking. 

As  I  like  to  encounter  a  man  with  soul  flashing 
from  his  eyes,  and  enthusiasm  beaming  on  his  counte- 
nance— his  open  brow  a  page  that  I  can  gaze  upon 
and  peruse,  his  every  feature  and  lineament  depicting 
passions  that  I  can  trace  to  their  sources  and  interpret 
at  my  pleasure,  his  discourse  proved  by  each  emotion 
revealed  by  the  personality  displayed  there. 

As  I  like  to  meet  a  fellow-creature  face  to  face  in 
my  intercourse  with  him;  so  I  shall  abandon  the 
fallacious  disguise  of  a  fashionable  mask,  and  meet 
the  public  face  to  face,  and  heart  to  heart.  I  ask  not 
a  lenient  judgment  for  my  frailties  and  errors;  but 
into  whatever  indiscretion  my  pen  may  have  led  me, 

1  only  ask  the  reader  to  suspend  his  harsher  judg- 
ment, and  remember  that  I  am  a  woman ;  and  a 
tremor  of  mute  anguish  creeps  into  my  heart  when  I 
think  and  remember  what  it  is  to  be  a  woman.  Tears 
are  for  woman ;  sighs  and  sobbings  are  for  woman ; 
courage,  courage,  they  say,  is  man's. 

Perhaps  so,  for  I  am  weak,  very  weak,  as  I  sit 
down  here  and  look  into  the  dim  tracery  of  a  dead 
face.  Oh,  the  unsullied  atmosphere  that  clings  about 
his  memory  now,  the  sinless  love  that  rises  up  and 


FACE   TO   FACE.         ^  9 

battles  for  his  forgiveness,  the  prayers  that  wrestle 
with  my  soul  and  straggle  up  to  the  throne — these 
are  the  giants  that  conquer ;  and  I  tremble  and  strug- 
gle with  them  until  the  weak  human  nature  gains  the 
mastery,  and  I  press  the  trinket  to  my  lips  and 
weep — weep  because  I'm  a  woman ;  because  I  loved 
him  with  a  woman's  love :  loved  him ! — Loved 
who?  I  look  within  the  golden  case  and  read  the 
initials ;  the  artisan  has  executed  bis  work  well ;  only 
two  small  letters.  Should  Eve  weep  in  Eden  ?  Should 
woman  weep  for  love  ?  Ah,  thereby  hangs  a  tale — 
the  story  of  a  life ;  not  the  old,  old  story ;  a  story  of 
to-day,  of  a  woman's  struggle  and  victory — my 
story. 


10  GIKLHOOD. 


CHAPTER  11. 

Girlliood. 

It  was  an  old  house;  and,  like  an  old  man's 
visage,  its  face  was  wrinkled,  begrimed,  and  grey 
with  the  stains  of  time.  The  interstices  of  the  walls 
and  the  shingles  were  verdant  with  an  emerald,  mossy 
green ;  and,  with  this  hue  surmounting  the  rotten  old 
gables,  and  the  great  lightning  rod  leaning  like  a 
bayonet  over  the  highest  chimney  top, "it  looked  not 
unlike  an  old  Hibernian  soldier  in  his  native  military 
garb. 

I  have  lain  for  hours  together  under  an  old  willow 
that  curtained  the  porch  ;  and,  giving  my  imagination 
wing,  have  seen  the  great  giant  standing  there  in  the 
twilight,  ghost-like,  and  still,  with  its  windows  lit 
from  within,  like  great  eyes  glaring  out  upon  me,  and 
its  huge  arms  stretching  on  either  side,  as  if  to  enclasp 
me  in  their  embrace ;  the  great  naked  roof  standing 
out  like  brawny  shoulders  against  the  dark  sky ;  the 
immense  bayonet,  and  the  smoke,  like  a  plume  curl- 
ing from  the  brow  of  a  gladiator  ;  in  the  kaleidoscope 
of  fancy  I  remember  nothing  that  made  so  strong  an 
impression  on  my  young  mind  as  this  idea  of  a 
tenement  possessing  personality. 


GIRLHOOD.  11 

Beneath  these  old  gables  I  was  ushered  into  the 
world — the  stage  on  which  I  am  to  plaj  a  part  as  a 
character  in  this  book. 

If  jou  ask  how  I  came  here,  or  why  I  came  here  at 
all,  I  must  respectfully  refer  you  for  information  to 
good  Dr.  Woodruff,  who  brought  me  into  the  world, 
and  who  is  supposed  to  know  all  about  it;  at  all 
events,  I  solemnly  protest  against  answering  such 
a  question,  on  the  positive  declaration  that  I  know 
nothing  at  all  about  the  matter.  -- 

I  once  remember  asking  my  mother  the  question 
for  myself,  and  she  told  me,  with  a  smile,  that  Doctor 
Woodruff  brought  me  to  her.  I  believed  this  until 
my  further  curiosity  prompted  me  to  ask  where  he 
came  across  me,  when  she  told  me  I  was  found  in  the 
woods.  My  better  judgment  rebelled  against  being 
found  in  the  society  of  owls  and  bats,  and  I  no 
longer  sought  to  penetrate  the  mystery  that  sur- 
rounded my  entrance  into  mortality  with  so  much 
obscurity,  but  was  content  in  my  ignorant  bliss. 
Notwithstanding  all  this,  however,  as  I  have  told 
you,  one  cold  winter's  morning,  in  the  year  18 — ,  I, 
Martha  Klopenstene,  was  given  a  habitation  and  a 
name  amongst  the  living ;  one  more  soul  flung  out 
from  creative  power  amid  earth's  millions  ;  one  more 
drop  in  the  great  seething  ocean  of  humanity.  Here, 
amongst  the  acres  of  my  paternal  home,  I  lived  the 
short  and  evanescent^fe  of  girlhood. 

It  was  not  a  place  of  romantic  surroundings.     A. 


12  GIRLHOOD. 

great  pine  grove  drew  a  dark  boundar}^  line  on  the 
east ;  and  here,  amid  its  sighing  branches,  was  my 
dream-land.  I  would  wander  for  hours  amid  its 
chequered  shades  and  watch  the  heraldic  precursors 
of  coming  storms.  At  such  tinjes  my  soul  seemed  to 
take  wings  unto  itself,  and  my  mind  expand  with 
the  sublime  thoughts  that  filled  my  brain,  until, 
almost  frightened,  I  would  recoil  with  terror  from 
myself.  The  sough  of  the  wind  amongst  the 
branches,  the  eternal  symphony  of  sounds,  touched 
a  chord  of  deep  melancholy  within  me  that  charmed 
me  as  music  would  a  serpent,  and  I  would  coil  myself 
down  on  the  soft,  yielding  leaves  and  undergrowth, 
and,  closing  my  eyes,  lie  for  hours  listening  to  this 
unearthly  paean  of  nature,  until  the  weight  of  its  sad- 
ness and  woe  overpowered  me ;  then  I  would  shout 
and  sing,  with  all  my  soul  up  in  arms,  striving  to 
deaden  the  solemn  hymn,  until  with  my  feeble  voice 
I  felt  like  a  great  soprano  soaring  high  up  above  the 
grand  deep  basso  of  the  old  spirits  of  the  pines. 

On  the  west  the  distant  horizon  was  unbroken,  and 
the  eye  at  sunset  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  hidden 
inner  glory  ;  when  the  great  blood-shot  eye  of  day 
veiled  its  lid  behind  the  west  and  left  ajar  the  door 
of  his  exit,  I  formed  my  first  conceptions  of  heaven. 

I  was  left  so  much  to  myself  about  this  period,  that 
I  should  have  learned  little  about  such  a  place  had 
not  my  invalid  mother  called  use  occasionally  to  her 
bedside,  and,  laying  her  wasted  hand  on  my  head,  told 


GIRLHOOD.  13 

me  about  the  temple  not  made  with  hands  and  eternal 
in  the  beyond. 

My  poor  mother  invariably  ended  by  saying,  again 
and  again  :  "  Poor  Martha  I"  "  Poor  child  1"  "  What 
will  become  of  thee  when  I  am  in  heaven  I"  I  never 
doubt  but  she  is  there. 

These  lessons,  however,  made  little  impression  on 
me  at  the  time,  and  I  went  out  again  to  my  old 
haunts  amongst  the  pines,  the  same  neglected,  half- 
wild,  untamable  creature  that  I  was  before.  Nature 
was  my  God,  my  only  confidante.  I  would  find  my- 
self muttering  thoughts  aloud  in  the  lonely  woods  ;  in 
fact  I  formed  an  early  habit  of  talking  and  commun- 
ing with  myself  aloud,  sohloquizing. 

I  remember  in  a  fit  of  anger  I  once  swore  an  oath 
— a  childish  oath — and  it  was  then  I  was  conscious 
what  a  great  and  controlling  power  nature  had  over 
me.  It  was  uttered  aloud,  and  my  lips  no  sooner 
formed  the  words  than  the  great  pulsing  nostril  of 
inanimate  creation  seemed  to  breathe  forth  a  censure  ; 
the  mighty  pines  stirred  their  giant  arms  and  sighed 
forth  a  gentle  admonition ;  the  flowers  looked  up 
with  a  pitying  rebuke ;  remorse  seized  me,  until  a 
conviction  settled  down  into  my  heart  that  I  had 
sinned — had  profaned  the  holy  presence  of  nature 
with  a  blasphemy.  \ 

From  the  front  of  the  house  a  broad  lane,  shaded 
on  either  side  by  trees,  swept  directly  north  until  it 
joined  the  road  that  ran  eastward  to  the  village  of 


14  GIRLHOOD. 

Haddonsfield  and  westward  to  what  was  then  known 
as  Hopkins'  Mills.  At  the  end  of  this  lane,  which 
was  macadamized  with  red  gravel  taken  from  a  quarry 
on  the  roadside,  was  a  hill  sloping  towards  the  vil- 
lage, at  the  base  of  which  stood  a  tenement  house 
belonging  to  my  father. 

Just  beyond  this  house  was  a  piece  of  fenced 
ground  used  as  a  graveyard,  sold  to  the  county  by 
my  fixther  as  a  place  of  sepulture  for  its  poor. 

This  secluded  spot,  on  the  environs  of  the  woods, 
was  a  place  of  much  superstitious  dread  to  me.  I 
never  passed  it  in  the  light  of  broad  day  without  a 
keen  sense  of  pity  for  the  lonely  dead,  lying  there  in 
earth's  bosom,  their  little  hillocks  sunken,  and  no 
headstones  to  mark  the  spot ;  not  even  a  name  or  a 
date;  no  church  near  to  hallow  their  resting-place 
with  the  shadow  of  its  spire.  This  first  impression 
of  death  made  me  recoil  from  futurity  ;  and  the  great 
shadow  of  my  soberer  moods  was  death,  the  grave,  and 
this  lonely  resting-place,  with  its  poor  and  nameless 
sleepers. 


A  NIGHT  ADVENTUKE.  15 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  Night  Adventure, — "  She  was  heautiful,  hut  lost,  lost." 

In  the  early  autumn  of  184 — ,  my  mother  was 
taken  suddenly  ill.  It  was  at  dusk,  and  there  was  no 
one  in  the  house  but  my  father  and  myself.  He 
called  me  to  him,  and  patting  me  tenderly  on  the 
cheek — the  warmest  token  of  affection  that  I  had  re- 
ceived from  him  for  a  long  time — made  me  acquainted 
with  the  imminent  danger  that  attended  my  mother's 
sudden  illness,  and  then  bade  me  haste  with  all  speed 
to  the  village,  about  two  miles  distant,  and  summon 
Dr.  Woodruff,  my  mother's  physician  ;  and  he  added  . 
"If  he's  not  at  home,  call  on  Dr.  Thornton."  The 
latter  was  an  allopathic  physician  of  the  old  school, 
and  was  employed  by  my  father,  while  the  former  was 
a  disciple  of  Hahnemann,  a  homoeopathist,  and  attend- 
ed on  my  mother. 

This  was  the  only  point  on  which  I  ever  knew  my 
parents  to  seriously  differ. 

I  thought  of  the  darkness,  the  lonely  road  through 
the  woods,  and  of  all  the  stories  I  had  heard  of 
ghosts,  the  haunted  graveyard  at  the  lane's  end,  and 
of  a  murder  once  supposed  to  have  been  committed 


16  A  NIGHT   ADVENTURE. 

at  the  same  spot.  I  stood  still  as  if  paralysed,  and 
from  my  terrified  soul  burst  forth  but  one  word — 
"  Father  1''  I  must  have  spoken  it  imploringly,  for  a 
look  of  pity  shot  into  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  and 
then  he  bad.e  me,  in  his  stern,  severe  manner,  begone 
and  do  his  bidding. 

I  cast  one  look  back  upon  the  pale  and  suffenng 
flice  of  my  mother,  wasted  and  worn,  I  think,  more 
by  some  hidden  grief  than  by  disease,  and  wrapping 
myself  in  my  slight  mantle,  I  shot  out  across  the 
lawn  and  along  the  lonely  lane  with  all  the  speed  I 
was  mistress  of. 

The  twilight  had  not  yet  lost  the  golden  suffusion 
that  the  autumnal  sunsets  leave  behind  them,  and  I 
passed  the  haunted  ground,  the  graveyard,  and  the 
pines  without  much  trepidation,  although  I  did  not 
encounter  any  one  on  the  road  but  a  drunken  laborer 
lying  on  the  wayside  in  harmless  imbecility. 

My  cheeks  aglow  with  the  exercise  and  excitement 
of  my  hurried  journey,  I  was  glad  when  the  lights 
of  tiie  village  began  to  twinkle  before  me.  I  met  no 
one  that  I  knew  in  the  village  street,  save  old  Deacon 
Mudge,  who  hurried  by  without  even  recognising  me. 

At  last,  tired  and  out  of  breath,  I  reached  the  fine 
showy  residence  of  Dr.  Woodruff. 

Physicians  always  have  fine  houses  and  silver  door 
plates,  and  in  a  village  like  Haddonsfield  it  was  only 
necessary  to  search  for  this  glistening  ornament,  and 
you  might  know  that  physics  were  an  appendage  to 


A  NIGHT  ADVENTURE.  17 

it ;  so  I  was  not  at  a  loss  in  finding  Dr.  Woodruff's 
office. 

I  pulled  the  bell  energetically.  Ah,  how  eagerly 
had  many  another  applicant  pulled  that  same  bell, 
with,  .perhaps,  despair  in  his  heart  and  no  gold  in  his 
pocket. 

I  waited  patiently  what  seemed  to  me  a  very  long 
time,  until  I  heard  the  shufiling  of  steps,  which  proved 
to  be  the  housekeeper  coming  down  stairs.  I  must 
have  looked  pale  and  meagre  indeed,  as  she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  me  through  the  half-open  door.  She  looked 
at  me  for  some  moments  silently,  as  if  to  satisfy  her- 
self that  I  was  not  a  beggar  come  to  demand  a  share 
of  her  charity,  and  then  in  the  high,  peculiar,  bell-like 
tone  common  to  most  housekeepers,  she  said  : 

"  What  do  you  want,  child  ?" 

"  Is  Dr.  Woodruff  at  home,  ma'am  ?"  I  said,  res- 
pectfully, my  voice  still  tremulous  with  the  rapid 
palpitation  of  my  heart.  She  did  not  stop  to  ask  me 
what  I  wanted  with  him,  but,  leaving  the  front  door 
open,  she  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  front  room,  on 
the  window  curtain  of  which  was  printed,  in  gold 
ktters,  "  Dr.  Woodruff,  Office,"  and  I  could  see  was 
lighted  up  within. 

"  Come  in,"  answered  a  voice  that  I  recognised  at 
once  as  the  Doctor's.  Pushing  the  office  door  ajar, 
she  said,  in  a  mock  ironical  tone : 

"  Doctor,  is  this  the  day  'for  the  reception  of  the 
poor  ?     The  marble  has  just  been  scrubbed,  the  entry 


18  A  NIGHT  ADVENTURE. 

cleaned,  and  the  bell  knob  polished  ;  and  here  comes 
one  of  your  pauper  patients  demanding  admittance/' 

I  did  not  wait  to  hear  his  reply  or  what  further  she 
might  have  said ;  I  was  insulted.  The  blood  fled 
from  my  face.  I  was  cold  with  anger,  and  rushing 
across  the  threshold,  regardless  of  consequences,  I 
struck  her — ^yes,  I  struck  that  harsh,  cruel  woman  a 
blow  with  all  the  might  I  was  mistress  of,  and,  push- 
ing her  aside,  I  entered  the  presence  of  Dr.  Wood- 
ruff with  a  proud  defiance  that  made  his  eyes  flash 
with  admiration,  even  amid  his  astonishment  at  my 
?udden  appearance  before  him. 

"  She  lies.  Dr.  Woodruff;  I  come  not  to  beg.  1 
come  because  father  sent  me,  and  to  tell  you  that 
mother  is  very  ill,  and  he  wants  you  to  come  out  to 
the  Pines  as  soon  as  you  can." 

I  looked  that  hard  woman  directly  in  the  face,  and 
had  I  not  mentioned  the  Doctor's  name,  he  might  have 
supposed  that  it  was  to  her  the  communication  was 
addressed.  She  heard  me  through  with  impatience  ; 
and  sneering  disdainfully,  vanished  from  the  room. 

The  Doctor  said  nothing  then,  but  in  after  years  he 
told  me  how  his  admiration  was  enkindled  for  me  in 
that  moment  when,  forgetting  my  girlhood,  I  so  boldly 
rebuked  his  housekeeper. 

Packing  together  a  few  vials  in  his  saddle-bags,  he 
prepared  to  set  out  immediately  on  his  journey  to  the 
Pines.  A  feeling  of  horror  now  seized  me ;  and  I 
would    have    begged    the  Doctor  to   place   me   on 


A  NIGHT  ADVENTURE.  19 

his  horse  before  him,  had  not  that  instinctive  fear  of 
ridicule,  so  common  to  children,  prevented  me  from 
expressing  my  terror.  I  had  fondly  hoped  that  he 
would  go  in  his  carriage  ;  but  alas,  too  late ;  the  groom 
let  go  his  hold  on  the  rein,  the  Doctor  mounted  and 
sped  away  with  the  speed  of  the  whirlwind,  leaving 
me  standing  there  desolate  and  alone  on  the  village 
pave. 

I  summoned  up  all  the  courage  at  my  command, 
and  started  with  a  beating  heart  homeward.  I  walked 
rapidly  until  I  gained  the  last  light  that  twinkled  on 
the  street,  and  then  I  was  to  bid  farewell  to  my  friend 
the  light,  and  go  out  to  meet  and  wrestle  with  my 
mortal  enemy  the  darkness. 

How  often  I  turned  to  watch  that  light,  glimmer- 
ing fainter  and  fainter  in  the  distance,  I  know  not.  I 
never  was  conscious  of  fear  at  all  when  wandering 
through  the  gloomy  pines  in  daylight.  I  could  hear 
the  serpent  rustle  among  the  leaves  as  he  glided 
away,  come  suddenly  upon  a  herd  of  half-wild  cattle 
or  a  baying  hound  and  not  start ;  but  night,  and  a 
dark  night  like  this,  I  recoiled  from  it.  If  grown 
persons  were  only  aware  of  the  superlative  horror 
children  have  for  darkness,  of  the  mortal  dread  and 
terror  that  shakes  every  bone  in  their  puny  bodies 
-when  left  alone  at  such  hours  as  this,  I  think  there 
would  be  fewer  cowards  in  the  rising  generation. 

On  leaving  the  village  I  walked  rapidly  until  the 
last  ray  of  light  was  lost  in  the  thickening  darkness  ; 


20  A   NIGHT   ADVENTURE. 

and  then  starting,  I  ran  at  full  speed  until  I  reached 
the  foot  of  the  hill.  The  wind  whistled  by  my  ears 
and  brushed  my  face  like  the  rustling  touch  of  gar- 
ments. The  sere  leaves  that  fell  eddying  to  the  ground 
with  a  crackling  sound,  scarce  perceptible  by  day,  par- 
took of  what  seemed  to  me  the  ghost-like  stealth  of 
giant  footsteps.  I  imagined  I  was  pursued.  I  was 
afraid  to  look  behind  ;  I  dreaded  what  was  before 
me.  A  huge  old  gnarled  stump  that  I  had  seen  a 
hundred  times  by  day  lying  in  the  road,  once  sent 
all  the  blood  back  to  my  heart;  and  a  cow  lowing  in 
an  adjoining  field  made  me  halt  and  listen,  trembling 
with  fear ;  while  a  cold  sweat  broke  out  on  my  fore- 
head when  I  came  again  upon  the  drunken  laborer 
moaning  by  the  wayside  at  the  same  spot  where  I  had 
left  him  earlier  in  the  evening. 

I  had  now  reached  the  tenement  house,  but  it  was 
dark  and  still  as  death,  no  tenant  having  occupied  it 
for  as  long  back  as  I  could  remember.  The  grave- 
yard was  yet  to  be  passed ;  the  whitewashed  fence 
was  visible  through  the  darkness,  and  only  hidden  by 
occasional  clusters  of  shrubbery  and  groups  of  trees. 
In  order  to  shorten  my  journey  somewhat,  and  my 
fear  slightly  abating,  I  determined  to  climb  the  grave- 
yard fence  and  cross  the  corner  where  no  interments 
had  as  yet  been  made.  I  had  some  difficulty  in 
clambering  over  the  briers  and  wild  hedge-bushes, 
but  I  had  no  sooner  alighted  within  the  inclosure 
than  a  figure,  draped  in  white,  met.  my  view. 


A  NIGHT  ADVENTURE.  21 

This  figure,  which  my  child  imagination  soon 
elevated  to  the  dignity  of  a  supernatural  visitor,  was 
apparently  leaning  on  a  staff.  It  was  before  hidden 
by  the  trees,  and  now  that  it  stood  revealed,  its  face 
was  turned  towards  me.  My  fear  of  the  supernatural 
gained  the  ascendency  of  my  reason  ;  at  the  sight  of 
that  white  form  standing  there  still  and  motionless  in 
the  cold  autumnal  starlight  the  blood  froze  in  my 
veins.  I  strove  to  speak,  to  scream,  but  I  could  do 
neither,  my  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth.  I 
uttered  a  strange,  unnatural,  guttural  sound,  and  fell 
in  a  swoon  to  the  earth.  For  some  minutes  I  was 
perfectly  inanimate.  I  knew  nothing  until,  suddenly 
awaking  from  my  unconscious  stupor  with  a  start,  I 
found  myself  in  the  arms  of  a  stout  laborer.  I  cannot 
define  my  sensations  of  relief;  it  was  like  awakening 
from  a  horrible  dream.  The  man  w^s  bathing  my 
brow  with  cool  water,  and  sitting  upon  a  new  made 
grave,  upon  which  the  turf  had  not  yet  grown.  A 
spade  was  lying  on  a  pile  of  loose  earth  and  stones 
that  formed  a  pyramid  beside  a  newly  dug  grave,  and 
a  few  yards  distant  was  a  rough  wooden  box  contain- 
ing a  corpse  awaiting  burial. 

'  The  man    was  in  his  shirt-sleeves    and  whistled 
some  low  tune  to  me  as  I  awoke. 

"Oh,"  I  cried,  *'whereaml?" 

"  Here,  m;^   little  chit,  safe  in  the  arms  of  John 
Day,  the  grave-digger." 

"  Where  is  the  ghost?"  I  asked,  the  old  terror  seizing 


22  A  NIGHT  ADVENTURE. 

me,  and  then,  ashamed  at  having  betrayed  myself,  I 
added  : 

"  John,  is  it  you  ?  and  who  are  you  going  to  put  in 
that  hole?" 

"  Oh,  my  little  lady,  I  seldom  trouble  myself  as  to 
the  names  of  them  as  lies  here;  but  this  was  a 
beautiful,  a  poor  forsaken  creature.  I  heard  her 
name — let  me  see;"  and  he  struck  his  fist  upon  the 
rough  box  so  sharply  as  to  startle  me  with  its  echo, 
while  he  strove  to  recall  it  from  his  memory. 

"  Kow  I  have  it,"  he  said,  after  a  time  ;  "  it  was  an 
outish  name ;  Charlotte  Cleytone  ;  that  was  it,  that  was 
it ;  my  mother's  name  was  Charlotte,  and  it  will  be 
many  a  year  before  I  forget  that." 

"  Why  do  they  bury  one  so  beautiful  in  this  dismal 
spot,  John?"  said  I,  pityingly.  "Has  she  no  father 
or  mother;  no  relations,  no  friends?" 

"  Oh,  she  was  beautiful,  to  be  sure  ;  but  lost,  lost,  my 
little  lady.  You  have  yet  to  learn  that  there  are 
acts  committed  which  will  shut  one  out  from  even  a 
father's  and  a  mother's  heart,  and  leave  one  friendless 
in  the  midst  of  friends  and  relatives.  You  are  too 
young  to  understand  these  things*3^et,  and  God  grant 
you  never  may;  but  come,  you  must  get  home  out  of 
the  damp  night  air,  and  I  must  finish  this  hole  before 
daylight." 

Taking  my  little  hand  in  his  roi^gh,  weather- 
beaten  palm,  he  shut  down  upon  it  like  a  vice, 
and    led   me   along   without    another    word,    while 


A  NIGHT  ADVENTURE.  23 

I  mused  on  my  adventure  and  that  strange  young 
creature  nailed  so  rudely  in  the  rough  wooden  box, 
and  his  words,  "  Her  name,  Charlotte  Cleytone ;  she 
was  beautiful,  but  lost,  lost."  What  did  it  mean  ?  I 
bade  him  good  night,  and  was  met  at  the  door  by  the 
housekeeper,  Mrs.  Whipple,  who  had  been  to  make  a 
call  at  a  neighboring  farm-house,  and  was  glad  enough 
to  find  that  my  mother's  illness  prevented  her  from 
asking  me  any  questions  about  my  prolonged  absence. 
I  went  quietly  to  bed,  and  Mrs.  Whipple  came  and 
tucked  in  my  coverlid,  asking  me  if  I  had  said  my 
prayers.  In  spite  of  my  nocturnal  adventure,  I  slept 
very  soundly  until  early  morning. 


24      FOR  EVER,  AND  EVER,  AND  EVER. 


CHAPTER  I\ 

For  Ever,  and  Ever,  and  Ever. 

My  father  was  in  the  habit  of  ringing  a  huge  bell 
at  early  morn,  and  woe  unto  the  sleeper  who  disre- 
garded its  summons. 

I  no  sooner  heard  its  brazen  clang  than,  shaking 
the  weight  of  slumber  from  my  eyelids,  I  prepared 
for  the  visit  which  I  had  determined  on  making  to 
witness  the  burial  of  that  poor,  unfortunate  Char- 
lotte Cleytone,  The  morning  was  a  close,  chill, 
gloomy,  and  foggy  one,  common  to  our  early  autumn, 
and  the  sun  would  not  shake  himself  out  of  the 
mist  for  some  hours  later.  I  took  my  course  along 
a  secluded  by-path  that  made  a  sinuous  way  through 
the  pines,  and  ended  at  the  southern  part  of  the 
lonely  habitation  of  the  dead.  The  sere  and  fall- 
ing leaf  is  not  an  inspiring  theme  for  meditative 
thought ;  and,  as  they  dropped,  one  by  one,  from 
bough  and  twig,  an  indescribable  sadness  pervaded  my 
childish  thoughts  that  I  could  not  check.  The  golden 
maple  hung  out  its  yellow  banners  in  striking  con- 
trast with  the  flaming  dogwood,  the  deeper  orange  of 
the  sassafras,   and  the  lighter  scarlet  of  the  sumac. 


FOR  EVER,  AND  EVER,  AND  EVER.       25 

There  were  far  more  gorgeous  tints  from  nature's 
palette  painted  against  that  dark,  sombre  background 
of  pines  and  framed  in  the  mist,  than  ever  Weber's 
exquisite  pencil  threw  into  his  gloriously  tinged  sun- 
sets. Autumn  was  to  me  the  season  of  seasons; 
the  sere  and  death-hectic  leaf  was  the  brightest  orna- 
ment in  the  chaplet  that  crowned  the  year.  Spring 
had  its  flowers,  summer  its  fruits,  and  old  winter  his 
diamond-dust  of  snow ;  but  autumn  brought  an 
argosy  of  thoughts,  of  fancies,  and  dreams.  My 
childhood  was  one  season  of  revery ;  I  had  not  as 
yet  learned  to  think  deeply,  to  reason,  and  therefore  I 
loved  the  still  hazy  autumn  because  it  humored  my 
moody  nature. 

I  had  not  as  yet  re  covered  fully  from  the  effects  of 
my  nocturnal  visit  to  this  spot  on  the  previous  night ; 
but,  like  most  young  persons,  these  things  failed  to 
trouble  me  deeply  after  seven  hours  of  sound  sleep. 
I  was  somewhat  assured  as  I  neared  the  spot  at  hear- 
ing the  cheery  whistle  of  John  Day,  and  a  little 
surprised  at  the  hardihood  he  had  acquired  that 
could  stand  there  whistling  over  the  open  grave.  I 
knew  little  of  what  human  nature  is  capable,  then,  or 
I  might  have  said  with  Hamlet — 

"  Has  this  fellow  no  feeling  of  his  business  ?  he  sings  at  grave- 
making." 

And  Horatio's  answer — 

"  Custom  hath  made  it  in  him  a  property  of  easiness." 
2 


26      FOR  EVER,  A^D  EVER,  AND  EVER. 

He  ceased  whistling  and  assisted  me  to  climb  the 
fence,  which  was  so  encumbered  with  briers  and 
poisonous  vines  that  it  was  not  an  easy  undertaking 
for  myself. 

Reaching  over  and  taking  me  in  his  strong  arms, 
he  lifted  me  clear  of  the  hedge  and  set  me  on  my 
feet  within  the  inclosure.  It  was  a  matter  of  little 
surprise  for  him  to  meet  me  thus  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, for  I  had  frequently  come  across  John  Day  in  my 
rambles,  and  we  had  formed  an  intimacy  that  was 
characteristic  between  the  weak  and  strong.  I 
always  would  cling  in  girlhood  to  anything  that 
embodied  strength  in  any  form,  and  later  years  form 
no  exception  to  this  rule.  Women  cleave  to  men 
like  ivy  to  the  oak.  Weak,  frail,  and  beautiful 
women  are  sure  to  fancy  great,  strong,  physical 
monstrosities. 

It  is  a  law  of  our  nature  and  of  God.  Weak 
minds  should  seek  the  companionship  of  strong  ones ; 
hopeless  spirits  be  linked  to  those  buoyant  hearts 
that  see  naught  but  rainbow  hues  in  the  bubble  of 
life.  One  extreme  will  act  upon  and  neutralize  the 
other.  Add  an  acid  to  a  caustic  and  the  result  will 
produce  a  beautiful  crystal.  Where  the  characters 
of  a  man  and  woman  are  the  most  extreme  opposites, 
there  look  for  the  strongest  love  or  the  most  inve- 
terate hatred.  A  beautiful  wife  will  declare  her 
husband  handsome,  even  though  he  be  as  ugly  as 
sin,  if  she  looks  at  him  through  the  eyes  of  wifely 


FOB  ETER,  AND  EVER,  AND  EVER.       27 

love.  There  is  no  one  thing  in  the  wide,  wide  world 
than  to  see  a  frail  woman  sheltered  by  the  arms  and 
It  .s  a  1  vmg  picture  that  only  God  can  paint-weak- 
suS.        '™'  '^'^'""°*-     ^"*  ^  -*"™  ^% 

used  t^'Lptf         -''^"^^  of  my  father's,  which  he 

He  17    V    T.*™'  '"'^ "S^*"  '»  "^y  boyhood." 

road    and  If  "'''"'^  ^"'^  "^"'  -*  ^--d^  the 
road,  and  left  me  s.tt.ng  there  alone  on  his  great- 

oa^wh.eh  he  had  spread  forme  on  the  dampgrS 
I  had  remamed  thus  but  a  few  moments,  and  L  bt 
gmnmg  to  shiver  a  little  with  the  chill  consruent 
upon  my  machon,  when  I  heard  the  muffled  sou^d  of 
approachmg  carriage-wheels.  It  was  not  longTefo/e 
o«  trb  :•  r^;;  ^-^^  °^P— ^^  st.eds,°dastd 

spot  w7er.t'  :  °°P'''  '""^  ^'^'^'^  '''  =»»  °bscure 

spot,  where  n  was  shut  out  entirely  from  the  view  of 

any  one  who  might  happen  to  pass  on  the  road 

It  was  some  time  before  John  Day  returned  hnf 

when  at  last  he  entered  the  yard,  he  was  ^0"^^ 

by  two  stranger..     The  elder  of  the  two  I  shouTdlv 

had  seen  fifty  winters,  and  the  traces  of  sorrow  n  he 

,deep  and  furrowed  lines  of  his  face  made  him  se  m 

somewhat  older  even  than  that.    There  was  a  fi'mZ 

abou  h,s  compressed  lips,  and  an  intense  depth  m  h  s 

ejes  that  made  me  think  of  a  hero  after  batde     The 


28 

younger  man,  his  companion,  I  did  not  particularly 
notice ;  I  only  remember  that  he  whispered  cheerful 
words  of  assurance  to  the  elder  gentleman,  and  sup- 
ported him  with  his  right  arm  as  they  drew  near  to  the 
corpse.  The  countenance  of  the  elder  stranger  was 
very  pale,  and  I  remember  hearing  his  teeth  chatter, 
and  a  tremor  shook  his  body  as  he  stood  there,  his 
face  expressing  a  mortal  agony  I  hope  never  to  wit- 
ness again,  and  his  hands  clasped  across  his  bosom  in 
mute  despair.  His  companion  noticed  his  distress, 
and,  admonishing  him  to  forbear  his  purpose,  said : 

"  Come  away,  sir,  this  will  kill  you.  Mr.  Cleytone, 
I  implore  you  not  to  have  the  box  opened  ;  you  have 
a  death-damp  on  you  now  ;  you  are  perilling  3'ourlife 
standing  here  in  the  chill  morning  air." 

The  old  man  spoke  not  a  word,  but  motioned  John 
Day  to  proceed  to  remove  the  covering ;  even  as  he 
lifted  his  arm,  it  fell  limp  and  nerveless  to  his  side. 
He  was  a  man  of  good  physical  stature,  but  his  energy 
and  muscular  endurance  availed  him  naught,  for, 
when  the  last  screw  was  removed  and  the  lid  about 
to  be  lifted  from  the  corpse,  he  would  have  fallen  to 
the  earth  had  he  not  been  supported  by  his  compa- 
nion. 

"  You  are  killing  yourself,  sir ;  let  us  go  at  once  to 
the  carriage ;  come,  assist  us.  my  good  man ;  nail  up 
the  lid,  and  bury  the  corpse  without  us ;  it  is  better 
he  should  not  see  her." 

This  seemed  to  rouse  the  dormant  mind  of  the  elder 


FOR  EVEE,  AND  EVER,  AND  EVER.       29 

Stranger,  and,  pushing  awaj  his  escort,  he  said,  in  an 
imperative  voice : 

"  Wm.  Hartless,  you  are  not  a  father,  and  God  save 
you  from  being  one,  or  you  could  feel  for  my  grief!" 
and  he  bade  John  Day  remove  the  lid.  The  two 
men  gathered  closer  as  the  lid  was  removed.  It  was 
a  strange  scene  there  in  the  grey  dawn  of  that  Septem- 
ber morning.  The  old  man  stood  transfixed,  his 
hands  clasped  tightly  on  his  bosom ;  not  a  tear  fell 
from  his  stony  eyes  for  many  minutes,  but  with  his 
gaze  fixed  upon  the  corpse,  he  seemed  frozen  to  a 
statue. 

Oh,  the  horror  of  such  a  sight !  If  he  had  only 
wept  as  I  did  there  in  my  childish  grief. 

Only  his  eyes,  his  brilliant  flashing  eyes,  changed 
from  hue  to  hue ;  his  stern  mouth  relented  not,  his 
proud  head  maintained  its  rectitude  ;  no  sorrow  heaved 
his  bosom  as  he  looked  down  on  the  corpse  in  mo- 
mentary silence.  At  last  I  noticed  the  mouth  quiver 
in  its  corners,  the  eyes  soften  with  a  dewy  warmth, 
and  the  hands  relax  their  clasp  upon  his  bosom. 
Bending  over  the  dead  form,  he  knelt  down  by  the 
rude  box,  and  with  the  tears  raining  from  his  eyes, 
he  seemed  in  his  soft  and  childlike  voice  to  be  parley- 
ing with  death.  I  could  not  hear  all  he  said ;  I  only 
caught  fragments,  for  his  sentences  were  broken  with 
sobs. 

"  Poor,  poor  child ;  poor  Lottie !    Lost  to  me  now 
for  ever.     I  have  forgotten  all,  forgiven  all,  but  she 


30       FOR  EVER,  AND  EVER,  AND  EVER. 

cannot  come  back  to  me  now.  This  bosom  should 
have  been  her  resting-place,  and  do  they  lay  her  here? 
O  God  !  here,  here,  here !  Here,  to  lie  for  ever,  and 
ever,  and  ever." 

Imprinting  a  kiss  on  the  clay-cold  brow,  he  arose 
hurriedly  and  said : 

"Come,  Hartless,  quick  I  quick  I  Take  me  away 
from  here ;  take  me  away  !" 

I  heard  him  still  sobbing  as  they  neared  the  carriage, 
and  caught  incoherent  fragments  of  conversation.  The 
carriage-door  closed  with  a  slam,  and  the  vehicle 
rolled  away  along  the  same  road  that  brought  it, 
towards  the  village,  with  its  strange  occupants,  who 
had  come  upon  the  stage  of  my  life  like  actors,  of 
whose  coming  and  going  I  knew  nothing. 

John  Day  did  not  return  immediately,  and  gather- 
ing a  few  flowers  from  the  wild  hedge,  I  made  a  breast- 
knot,  and,  tying  it  with  grass,  placed  it  on  the  bosom 
of  the  corpse. 

It  was  so  beautiful,  that  in  spite  of  my  childish  fear 
of  death  I  imprinted  a  kiss  on  the  brow,  and  stole 
away  by  the  path  that  brought  me,  with  that  cry  of 
anguish  ringing  in  my  ears :  "  For  ever,  and  ever,  and 


HAELOTTE   CLEYTONE.  31 


CHAPTEK  Y. 

Charlotte    Cleytone — Materia   Medica — Tlie    Shadow  of  Death. 

Heretofore  mj  life  had  been  one  devoid  of  inci- 
dent, but  now  it  seemed  stirred  like  a  quiet  lake 
breaking  into  ripples  from  a  stone  cast  rudely  into  its 
still  waters.  I  pitied  the  fate  of  that  poor  girl,  friend- 
less and  an  outcast,  lying  buried  there  in  that  unhal- 
lowed spot,  amid  the  poor  of  the  county.  Her 
delicate  face,  with  its  sensuous  beauty  e'en  in  death, 
haunted  me  like  a  spirit  demanding  retribution  ;  she 
must  have  a  history  ;  she  was  not  always  the  outcast. 
The  interest  taken  in  her  by  the  strangers,  the  old 
gentleman  calling  her  his  child,  his  Lottie ;  these 
things  awakened  my  curiosity,  and  set  me  to  specu- 
lating about  the  terrible  sin  she  must  have  com- 
mitted, the  enormity  of  which  could  bring  such  an 
awful  punishment  upon  her.  I  would  sit  by  her 
grave  and  muse  for  hours,  but  the  truth  was  not  long 
in  thrusting  itself  upon  my  mind;  I  was  growing 
older,  and  began  to  launch  out  imaginary  barques 
into  the  world  that  was  lying  out  like  an  inexplicable 
dream  before  me.  I  thought  of  the  man,  free  and 
unreproached,  striding  on  in  the  paths  of  society,  and 


32  CHARLOTTE   CLEYTONE. 

then  I    looked  down  on  the  little  mound  with  its 
eternal  sleeper. 

At  mj  request  John  Day  had  placed  a  wooden 
slab  at  the  head  of  the  grave,  and  on  its  face  was 
traced  in  black  letters : 

Charlotte  Cleytone, 
Buried  Septetnber  10,   185 —  • 
History  Uxknowx. 

This  was  all  I  knew  of  the  poor  unfortunate 
creature  lying  below;  and  little  did  I  think  that 
when  that  unknown  history  should  be  revealed,  those 
very  words  would  be  seared  on  my  heart  as  with  a 
burning  coal.  I  gathered  the  gorgeously  tinted  leaves 
of  autumn,  and  made  wreaths  for  its  adornment.  I 
bade  John  Day  keep  the  turf  green  at  all  seasons, 
and  out  of  his  sincere  affection  for  me  I  believe  he 
performed  the  duty  faithfully  as  long  as  he  lived. 

But  this  was  not  all.  Other  things  of  great  moment 
were  occurring  around  me.  My  mother  continued 
to  grow  worse,  for  consumption  was  gnawing  at  the 
vitals. 

I  happened  to  be  present  one  morning  at  a  consul- 
tation which  was  held  in  the  old  familiar  sitting- 
room  between  Drs.  Woodruff  and  Thornton.  It  was 
then  that  the  awful  truth  flashed  suddenly  upon  me ; 
I  was  soon  to  be  motherless.  My  mother  had  been 
an  invalid  for  a  long  time  back,  and  although  I  have 
spoken  little  of  our  intercourse,  we  had  been  much 


CHARLOTTE   CLEYTONE.  83 

together.  The  only  redeeming  traits  in  my  childish 
nature  were  planted  there  by  my  mother,  and  I  loved 
her  beyond  any  other  earthly  being.  The  consulta- 
tion alluded  to  was  heard  only  in  part  by  me.  It  was 
a  hot  contest  between  those  two  old  followers  of 
Esculapius.  They  were  seated  on  either  side  of  a 
little  table,  on  which  stood  a  half-emptied  decanter 
and  several  glasses.  Could  my  mother  have  heard 
them,  she  might  have  likened  them  to  two  hungry 
vultures  quarrelling  for  her  blood.  I  think  they  did 
not  hear  me  enter,  for  the  door  was  partly  open,  and 
I  trod  very  softly.     I  heard  Dr.  Thornton  say  : 

"I  tell  you.  Woodruff,  she  cannot  last  another 
twenty -four  hours." 

"  And  yet  you  would  continue  your  heretical  course 
of  administering  nauseous  doses  of  poisonous  drugs,  to 
the  infinite  torture  of  a  body  whose  soul  will  take 
wing,  secundum  naturam^  in  twenty-four  hours  for 
eternity.  I  cannot  understand  your  physics.  Doctor," 
said  the  homoeopathist. 

If  there  were  not  many  more  exalted  and  noble 
traits  in  Dr.  Woodruff's  character,  my  heart  would 
always  have  warmed  towards  him  for  these  words. 
The  idea  of  racking  the  body  with  bitter  and  painful 
remedies,  and  making  experimental  doses  to  save  a 
life  that  is  fast  setting  behind  the  hills  of  eternity,  has 
always  been  distasteful  to  me.  If  death  is  knocking 
at  the  door,  let  it  be  quietly  opened,  and  the  soul  go 
out  of  its  tenement  in  peace. 

2^^ 


34  CHARLOTTE   CLEYTOXE. 

Dr.  Woodruff  was  a  fine  representation  of  the 
father  of  medicine ;  he  possessed  a  high  and  expan- 
sive brow,  an  aquiline  nose,  dark,  penetrating  eyes, 
hair  slightly  flecked  with  grey,  rather  an  effeminate 
mouth,  and  alimentiveness  largely  developed,  with 
prominent  cheek  bones.  Withal,  he  was  a  hand- 
some man.  Philanthropy,  generosity,  and  gallantry 
combined  with  blandness  and  dignity.  I  never 
remember  seeing  him  without  his  rather  delicate 
and  effeminate  hand  was  gloved  with  kid.  He  always 
entered  my  mother's  chamber  with  his  right  hand 
bared,  and  his  unworn  glove  clasped  in  his  left.  He 
had  a  peculiar  habit  of  wiping  his  pen  on  the  inside 
of  this  glove  after  writing  a  prescription.  His  slight 
corpulency  argued  somewhat  to  the  disproval  of  his 
favorite  maxim,  "  Similia  similibus  curantur,"  for  I 
doubt  whether  the  administration  of  his  aliment  in 
homoeopathic  doses  would  have  been  beneficial  to  his 
health. 

Dr.  Thornton  was  neither  dignified  nor  handsome. 
He  was  one  of  those  ordinary  men  we  meet  with  often 
in  life,  who  have  amassed  fortunes,  are  respectable  and 
well  thought  of,  but  in  whom  we  can  detect  nothing 
but  mediocrity,  and  oftentimes  is  it  a  matter  of 
wonder  to  us  how  such  men  can  succeed  as  lawyers, 
physicians,  and  merchants. 

I  do  not  think  he  was  conscious  of  the  great  re- 
sponsibility that  rested  upon  him  as  one  holding  the 
keys  of  life  and  death,  and  I  should  much  have  pre- 


CHARLOTTE   CLEYTONE.  85 

ferred  being  usliered  into  eternity  with  Dr.  Doctor 
Woodruff's  calm,  dignified  face  looking  down  over  the 
confines  of  earth  upon  me  as  I  launched  out  on  the 
brink  of  eternity.  It  would  lend  courage  to  the 
faltering  soul,  and  give  strength  to  the  arm  that  plied 
the  untried  oar. 

After  much  unnecessary  word-wasting  on  the  part 
of  Thornton,  and  much  sound  reasoning  and  common 
sense  on  the  part  of  Woodruff",  the  former  conceded 
the  point  in  dispute — that  nothing  remained  but  to 
render  the  patient  as  comfortable  as  possible,  and 
make  her  exit  from  life  as  pleasant  as  circumstances 
would  warrant.  I  felt  somewhat  relieved  at  this 
result.  My  mother's  weary  spirit  was  to  be  left  in 
peace  while  it  plumed  its  wings  for  its  flight  over  the 
dark  waters. 

Dr.  Thornton  was  the  village  apothecary,  and  I 
have  no  doubt  this  was  one  reason  why  he  insisted  so 
strenuously  on  prescribing  for  the  patient,  even  in  her 
dying  hours.  If  a  post-mortem  were  held  after  the 
death  of  any  one  of  his  patients,  I  fear  the  verdict 
would  invariably  be — Died  from  the  effects  of  poison 

administered  by  the  hands  of  Dr. .    But,  stop. 

Perhaps  I  am  too  severe  a  judge.  The  Doctor  still 
lives  and  pursues  his  avocation.  I  remember  a  Latin 
inscription  that  he  had  painted  in  gold  letters  on  a 
sign  over  the  entrance  to  his  shop — Amicus  humani 
generis — a  friend  of  the  human  race.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  I  could  make  out  its  significance,  and  now 


36  CHARLOTTE   CLETTOXE. 

I  laugh  when  I  think  of  it,  And  suggest  aut  vincere 
aut  mori,  as  a  more  appropriate  one,  because  the 
Doctor's  maxim  was  undoubtedly  to  kill  or  cure. 
You  would  have  coincided  with  me,  perhaps,  had 
you  stood  for  hours  in  his  shop,  striving  to  make 
English  out  of  the  hieroglyphical  Latin  that  was  dis- 
played on  the  drawers  and  bottles.  There  was  fft/- 
drarg.  cum  Creta  on  a  black  bottle  in  a  row  by  the 
door.  I  remember  it  was  mysterious  in  significance 
to  me,  and  I  was  ashamed  of  my  ignorance  when 
the  Doctor  told  me  it  was  only  mercury  and  chalk. 
There  was  Sal  Epsom  on  a  drawer.  If  the  vil- 
lage dressmaker's  name  had  not  been  Sallie  Smith,  I 
should  have  taken  it  for  a  relative  of  hers  ;  but  this 
lady  I  was  certainly  unacquainted  with.  Then  there 
was  Antimonil  Tartras,  another  name  for  simple  Tar- 
tar Emetic ;  Hy drarg.  Chhridum  Corrosivum^  a  nom 
de  plume  for  Corrosive  Sublimate ;  and  I  might  have 
eaten  arsenic  under  the  cognomen  of  Arsenicum^  as 
sugar,  and  not  have  been  the  wiser.  I  began  to  feel 
afraid  of  Dr.  Thornton  after  my  first  visit  to  his  shop. 
What  wonder,  with  all  the  poisons  in  the  Materia 
Medica  at  his  fingers'  ends,  nicely  hidden  under  Latin 
masks,  the  Doctor  fooled  the  dear  confiding  public, 
and  cajoled  his  patients  into  the  belief  that  his  reme- 
dies were  the  simplest  in  the  world.  And  now 
one  word  about  this  prevalent  practice  of  writing 
prescriptions  in  a  dead  language.  I  say  that  it  shows 
a  lack  of  manliness  to  work  thus  under  a  mask. 


CHARLOTTE   CLEYTONE.  37 

Good  deeds  seek  the  light  rather  than  darkness  and 
obscurity.  If  a  physician  prescribes  for  me  bread- 
pills,  let  him  write  it  out  in  plain,  broad  English,  and 
I  will  take  them  as  bread-pills.  They  will  have  no 
better  effect  if  concealed  under  a  subterfuge.  Every 
man  has  a  right  to  know  what  passes  into  his  own 
stomach,  and  nature  has  provided  him  with  taste  and 
smell  that  he  may  reject  what  is  hurtful ;  and  if  so  in 
regard  to  food,  how  much  more  so  in  regard  to  medi- 
cine? But  de  mortuo  nil  nisi  honum,  I  suppose,  I 
must  adopt  as  a  motto. 


38  OVER  THE  RIVER. 


CHAPTER  YI. 

Over  the  River — I  become  Acquainted  with  my  Father. 

I  CANNOT  lay  my  mother's  death  at  the  door  of 
either  man's  conscience.  I  only  know  that  my  father 
came  to  me  one  morning  with  his  eyes  suffused  with 
tears,  and  a  cry  of  ''  0  God !  she's  dead !"  on  his 
lips.  I  only  remember  the  cold,  still  face,  the  coffin, 
the  covered  mirrors,  the  hearse  with  its  black  nodding 
plumes,  a'hd  my  emotions  at  the  time.  I  was  yet  too 
young  to  feel  the  momentous  truth  in  all  its  solemn 
realities,  as  some  years  later  I  did.  It  was  a  large 
concourse  gathered  at  my  mother's  funeral.  1  remem- 
ber looking  out  of  my  father's  carriage,  and  striving 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  end  of  the  cortege  as  it 
wound  slowly  and  solemnly  down  the  hill. 

My  poor  mother  never  would  have  dreamed  of 
possessing  so  numerous  a  circle  of  friends  during  life. 
It  shocked  even  my  sensibility.  Many  whom  I  had 
never  seen  cross  my  father's  threshold  during  life  and 
illness,  came  now  to  witness  the  grand  finale — the 
grave;  some  out  of  curiosity,  many  out  of  sincere 
respect,  a  few  out  of  friendship,  very  few  impelled 
by  love.     I  think  it  would  be  a  consolation  to  me  on 


OVER   THE   RIVER.  89 

my  death-bed  to  issue  funeral  invitations  only  to  those 
whom  I  grapple  to  me  in  life  with  the  iron  bond  of 
friendship.  It  is  a  lamentable  and  censurable  mock- 
ery. I  have  known  persons  enter  the  house  which 
was  the  earthly  home  of  the  holy  dead  with  no  other 
desire  than  to  gratify  a  shallow  and  heartless  curiosity, 
to  gaze  on  the  trappings  of  the  coffin,  to  read  the  in- 
scription on  the  plate,  to  inspect  the  shroud,  and 
afterwards  make  the  corpse  the  subject  of  idle  gossip, 
saying,  with  mock  gravity :  "  How  sweet  she  looked, 
poor  creature !"  I  believe  I  should  stir  in  my  shroud 
to  rebuke  those  who  would  lean  over  my  narrow 
house  with  a  hypocritical  lie  on  their  very  faces, 
which  are  long  drawn  out,  while  a  smile  lurks  in  the 
heart,  perhaps,  at  the  figure  cut  by  my  poor  relations, 
who  gather  around  me  with  sincere  and  heartfelt 
grief  depicted  in  face  and  eye,  and  whose  hearts  are 
full  of  the  shadowy  presence.  We  had,  however, 
few  relatives,  rich  or  poor,  within  the  borders  of  the 
State,  and  I  only  remember  an  introduction  to  my 
Uncle  Philip  and  his  quiet,  demure  daughter  Lucy, 
who,  I  remember,  sobbed  and  cried  in  a  refuse-to-be- 
comforted  sort  of  way  about  my  mother's  death,  and 
who  seemed  to  take  the  matter  a  great  deal  worse  to 
heart  than  I  did ;  I  think  I  bore  it  with  a  sort  of 
philosophic  heroism.  One  good  resulted  from  my 
mother's  demise.  My  father  and  I,  after  a  hfelong 
estrangement,  were  beginning  at  last  to  become  more 
intimately  acquainted  with  each  other,  and  we  went 


40  OVER  THE   RIVER. 

about  it  in  an  odd  manner,  too — more  like  strangers 
breaking  through  the  ice  of  civility  than  father  and 
daughter  assuming  the  attitude  of  love  which  God 
designed  as  our  heritage. 

I  remember  the  first  collision  we  had.  The  old 
house  had  grown  lonely  and  desolate  to  him  now, 
and  he  seldom  remained  in  doors  long  at  a  time 
unless  in  the  evenings;  nor  indeed  did  I,  for  the 
autumn  winds  made  a  sad  and  mournful  sound 
amongst  the  old  gables,  that  made  me  shiver  some- 
times. I  was  passing  my  third  term  at  the  county 
school,  that  old  black,  dingy,  dreary-looking,  one- 
story  school-house,  standing  in  a  grove  of  oaks,  and 
to  whose  threshold  a  cow-path  made  a  bee-line  across 
my  father's  fields.  There,  good  old  Miss  Joyce  was 
mistress  of  the  ruler  and  the  birch.  She  might  have 
been  severe  on  the  young  and  tender  palms,  and  per- 
haps the  tingling  sensation  she  once  sent  all  over  my 
muscular  system  has  left  a  prejudice  in  my  mind 
against  country  school-marms  in  general ;  but  she 
has  gone  to  her  long,  long  home,  and  we  will  not 
assail  the  prostrate  dead  who  cannot  defend  them- 
selves. 

It  was  a  cold  blustering  evening  in  the  later  autumn. 
"We  were  gathered  about  the  cheerful  fire  in  the  old 
sitting-room ;  this  was  the  only  apartment  in  the 
house  in  which  I  felt  perfectly  at  home.  The  whole 
place  had  an  air  of  unassuming  comfort.  The  soft, 
subdued  color    of   the    carpet,    the    tastily    paper- 


OVER   THE   RIVER.  41 

ed  walls,  the  mellow  flow  of  light  that  fell  from 
beneath  a  shade  adorned  with  gaudy  pictures  of 
Oriental  ornithology,  the  huge  sea-shells  with  their 
couleur  de  rose  cheeks  on  the  mantel,  the  great  clock 
with  a  half-moon  on  its  brazen  face,  that  ticked  loudly 
in  the  corner,  and  a  picture  that  hung  between  the 
windows  of  a  lady,  young  and  beautiful,  which  I  had 
been  told  was  my  mother  in  her  girlish  freshness — 
these  lent  a  charm  to  my  father's  sitting-room. 

My  father,  on  this  particular  evening,  in  conformity 
with  his  usual  custom,  was  perusing  the  columns  of 
the  Evening  Press,  a  paper  that  came  to  him  from  the 
city  by  daily  mail.  The  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Whipple, 
was  seated  opposite,  her  glasses  astride  her  nose,  and 
her  needle  busily  plying  some  household  work. 
I  had  determined  on  the  perusal  of  a  questionable 
work  of  fiction.  I  had  studied  my  geography  and 
lexicon  until  I  was  seized  with  a  sort  of  mental  nausea 
that  comes  nearer  to  the  physical  one  of  sea-sickness 
than  anything  else  I  can  liken  it  to.  I  do" not  remem- 
ber what  prompted  me  to  read  this  book,  unless  it 
was  the  mystery  which  was  rather  deepened  than 
explained  by  a  wood-cut  representing  a  man  leaping 
from  a  great  height  down  a  dark  and  rocky  precipice 
without  any  apparent  cause.  I  had  seen  few  novels ; 
for  my  father's  library,  besides  his  works  on  agricul- 
ture and  chemistry  (for  he  was  an  intelligent  farmer), 
consistedmainly  of  the  "Pilgrim's  Progress,"  "Baxter's 
Saints'  Best,"  and  the  "  Family  Bible."    There  was  a 


42  OVER  THE   RIVER. 

great  red  fire  glowing  on  the  hearth,  and  a  great  fire 
burning  in  my  brain  as  I  read  the  description  of  an 
exciting  race  for  life  which  led  the  hero  of  the  romance 
to  precipitate  himself  from  that  fatal  height,  as  repre- 
sented in  the  picture.  I  had  reached  this  point,  wdien 
my  father  looked  up  from  his  paper,  and,  glancing 
over  my  shoulder,  his  eye  fell  on  the  wood-cut.  He 
seemed  to  be  aware  for  the  first  time  that  he  had  a 
daughter.  Taking  the  book  quietly  from  my  rather 
tremulous  hands,  he  said  to  Mrs.  \Yhipple,  rather  than 
to  me,  in  his  rather  stern  manner : 

"  What  is  this  girl  reading,  Mrs.  Whipple  ?  I  hope 
you  will  take  some  supervision  in  the  matter,  and  see 
that  she  reads  proper  books," 

He  did  not  seem  to  expect  an  answer  ;  but,  taking 
the  book  and  glancing  over  its  contents,  he  tore  the 
leaves  out  one  by  one,  and  cast  them  into  the  blazing 
fire.  My  cheeks  flushed  with  mortification  and  anger. 
Mrs.  Whipple  proceeded  to  take  her  specs  delibe- 
rately from  her  nose,  placed  her  needle  back  in  her 
work-basket,  and,  withdrawing  her  flaring  silk  hand- 
kerchief from  her  pocket,  blew  her  nose.  I  knew 
from  these  movements  that  she  was  about  to  make  a 
charge  in  self-defence. 

"  Mr.  Klopenstene,  your  daughter  is  an  odd  girl." 
Here  she  stopped  to  take  breath  and  recruit,  while 
my  father  said : 

"  I  am  aware  of  that  fact,  Mrs.  Whipple." 

The  housekeeper  re-tied  her  cap-strings. 


OVER   THE    RIVER.  43 

"  She  has  arrived  at  that  mature  age  when  a  woman's 
character  is  formed  ;  she  is  quite  a  girl." 

"  True,  I  forget ;  how  old  is  she,  Mrs.  Whipple  ?" 

That  lady  took  off  her  glasses,  and,  having  wiped 
them  on  her  handkerchief,  answered  : 

"  She  is  fifteen  to-day,  sir."  She  looked  at  him 
with  some  astonishment  at  the  question.  "  And  it  is 
high  time  she  were  getting  an  education  that  will  fit 
her  for  her  station."  My  father  put  his  hand  to  his 
head,  and  appeared  to  be  thinking  deeply  as  Mrs. 
Whipple  continued : 

"  You  have  not  forgot,  sir,  that  her  mother  wished 
her  to  be  sent  to  Mrs.  Osgood's  school  when  she 
should  be  fifteen?  I  intended  speaking  of  the  matter 
before,  but  this  is  the  first  fitting  occasion  that  has 
presented,"  My  father  turned  his  eyes  towards  me 
when  the  housekeeper  mentioned  my  mother,  and  our 
glances  met.  He  said-^more  to  himself  than  to  any 
one  present — 

"  True ;  she  looks  like  her  mother  ;  wby,  I  had 
almost  forgotten  that  the  child  will  soon  be  a  woman." 
Putting  out  his  hand,  he  said  kindly : 

"Mattie,  come  here  and  let  me  look  at  you."  I 
went  to  him  with  some  timidity  ;  but  when  I  saw  two 
great  tears  gather  in  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  and 
fall  athwart  his  cheeks,  I  learned  with  what  a  yearn- 
ing love  I  loved  him.  He  smoothed  the  hair  back 
from  my  brow  ;  he  called  me  Mattie  and  little  woman, 
with  so  much  endearment  in  his  tone,  that  I  could  not 


44  OVER  THE    RIVER. 

account  for  the  sudden  change.  lie  imprinted  a  kiss 
on  my  brow — the  first  fatherly  kiss  I  remembered 
receiving  for  a  long  time  back.  As  he  folded  his 
paper  and  prepared  to  leave  the  room,  he  said  to 
Mrs.  Whipple : 

"  Let  her  wardrobe  be  prepared  as  soon  as  possible, 
for  she  must  go  to  Mrs.  Osgood's  in  a  few  days  at 
furthest."  As  he  passed  my  chair,  he  stooped  and 
kissed  me  again,  whispering : 

"Good-night,  daughter." 

"  Good-night,  father,"  I  said,  and  throwing  my 
arms  about  his  neck,  I  burst  into  tears. 


THE  LAST  DAYS   AT  THE   PINES.  45 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  Last  Days  at  the  Pines — My  Father's  Plan  for  my  Future. 

"Where's  Mattie?"  I  heard  my  father  ask  the 
morning  of  the  day  prior  to  that  on  which  I  was  to 
set  out  for  sshooL 

"  She's  out  in  the  pines,  I  expect,  as  usual,"  said 
Mrs.  Whipple,  "on  the  rampage;  she  likes  not  to 
stop  in-doors  after  daybreak." 

"Poor  child!"  said  my  father,  in  a  pitiful  tone; 
"  her  home  must  indeed  possess  few  attractions  if  she 
prefer  the  gloom  of  the  woods." 

"Why,  la,  sir,  it's  not  gloomy  to  her  ;  she  exhausts 
her  vocabulary  in  trying  to  set  forth  its  attractions. 
I  hope  a  few  years  of  school-life  will  sober  her  down 
and  change  her  notions  a  little,  sir.  Why,  she  has  no 
more  idea  how  to  be  a  lady  than  the  man  of  the  moon. 
She  can't  sew  a  stitch,  cook  a  partridge,  tell  when  the 
roast  is  done,  set  a  table  ;  in  fact,  she  can  do  nothing 
becoming  a  girl  of  her  age.  Why,  sir,  when  I  was 
fifteen,  I<took  sole  charge  of  my  father's  kitchen." 

"  My  daughter  is  not  to  be  educated  for  the  kitchen, 
ma'am,"  said  my  father  stiffly. 

Good  Mrs.  Whipple  gave  a  start  as  I  walked  into 


46  THE   LAST  DAYS   AT  THE   PINES. 

the  room,  and  pulled  her  great  cap-ruffle  closer  over 
her  head,  with  a  movement  that  betokened  surprise 
and  consternation  ;  for  I  was  a  living  witness  to  the 
fact  that  she  had  never  tried  to  teach  rne  one  of  the 
arts  mentioned  in  her  catalogue. 

"  Here  I  am,  father,"  I  said  ;  "  not  a  woman  to  be 
sure,  but  only  a  girl ;  and  if  you  will  come  with  me 
I'll  show  you  and  tell  you  why  I  like  the  pines." 

I  saw  that  my  father  had  his  cane  in  his  hand,  and  I 
think,  from  what  followed  during  that  morning  walk, 
it  was  his  intention  to  extend  an  invitation  to  me  to 
join  him.  He  smiled  at  my  proposal — the  first  smile 
that  I  had  noted  on  his  face  since  my  mother's  death. 
This  was  why  I  took  his  hand  with  so  much  confidence 
as  we  left  the  house.  He  might  have  been  a  little 
child  whom  I  was  leading,  so  meekly  did  he  follow 
w^herever  I  wished  to  go. 

I  took  him  along  the  little  path  that  led  to  my 
sacred  grave.  I  do  not  remember  what  I  said,  but  I 
believe  I  talked  incessantly  about  any  subject  that 
happened  to  excite  my  fancy  ;  at  all  events,  it  seemed 
to  be  interesting  to  him,  for  he  would  occasionally 
press  my  hand  more  firmly,  and  I  would  catch  his  eye 
sometimes  fixed  on  me  with  a  fond  look.  I  told  him 
about  that  night  long  ago  when  I  met  John  Day  in 
the  graveyard.  I  told  him  of  the  beautiful  girl  I  had 
seen  laid  away  to  rest  amongst  the  poor  outcasts.  The 
day  was  one  of  those  sweet  summery  ones  that  some- 
times linger  like  a  spirit  about  the  death-bed  of  the 


THE  LAST  DAYS  AT  THE   PINES.  47 

year.  An  occasional  twitter  amongst  the  brandies ; 
shining  spires  of  golden-rod  and  mullein  adorned  the 
copse  and  headlands. 

"We  sat  for  some  time  beneath  a  chestnut-tree  that 
stood  like  a  towering  and  watchful  sentinel  at  the  end 
of  the  lane,  with  the  burrs  dropping  about  us,  and 
sometimes  the  chestnuts  themselves  would  fall ;  a 
squirrel  came  out  with  his  bushy  tail,  and  scampered 
away  with  one  in  his  jaws  into  the  hollow  of  a 
neighboring  pine. 

So  strange  a  thing  is  memory,  oftentimes  one  cannot 
recall  the  names  of  those  whom  we  once  loved  and 
called  friends ;  and  yet  we  remember  with  a  wonderful 
distinctness  the  fall  of  a  certain  leaf  amid  the  myriads 
of  the  forest ;  we  see  its  shape,  its  delicate  veins,  its 
changing  hues  as  distinctly  as  we  saw  them  years  ago. 
The  patter  of  a  rain-drop  against  the  window-pane,  a 
snow-flake  on  the  wintry  wind  or  falling  into  the 
river's  bosom,  a  flower;  while  memory  serves  us  in 
these  minute  things,  she  denies  us  memorials  of  the 
most  solemn  eras  of  our  lives.  This  was  to  me  a 
day  of  unalloyed  happiness — almost  the  first  I  had 
known.  My  father  seemed  anxious  to  make  me  his 
confidante.  When  I  had  exhausted  my  stock  of  con- 
versation, he  unfolded  his  plans  for  the  future. 

''  Come,  daughter,"  he  said  ;  "  come  with  me,  and  I 
will  show  you  what  I  intend  to  be  doing  during  your 
three  years'  absence." 

"  Three  years,  father  !"  I  said.     ''Surely  I  am  not 


48  THE   LAST   DAYS   AT   THE    FIXES. 

to  be  gone  so  long.  I  shall  want  to  see  you,  and  the 
PineSj  and  home  so  badly." 

*'  True,  my  child ;  but  I  shall  come  and  see  you 
sometimes ;  and  what  I  am  about  to  do  for  you  will 
make  home  so  comfortless  that  it  will  be  better  for 
you  to  remain  away  from  it  for  a  time.  You  will 
soon  form  new  ties  amongst  girls  of  your  own  age, 
and  forget  all  about  home  and  your  lonely  father." 
He  spoke  so  kindly  and  yet  reproachfully. 

"  Father,"  I  said,  in  a  rebuking  tone,  while  the 
tears  came  into  my  eyes.  I  was  quite  hurt  at  the  idea 
of  learning  to  forget  one  whom  I  had  so  suddenly 
learned  to  love.  With  his  arm  thrown  protectingly 
about  me,  we  pursued  our  walk  in  silence  until  gain- 
ing a  fine  elevation,  which  had  gained  the  rather 
dignified  title  of  Oak  Mountain,  from  the  fact  of  its 
being  the  only  hill  of  any  great  height  in  the  county, 
and  a  few  fine  oak-trees  growing  like  plumes  from  its 
brow.  It  was  a  beautiful  spot,  and  the  view  of  the 
surrounding  country  was  one  of  mingled  picturesque- 
ness  and  grandeur.  My  father  lifted  the  hat  from  his 
brow  as  he  stood  gazing  out  at  the  scene  and  inhaling 
the  pure  and  unadulterated  breath  of  heaven. 

"  Here,  my  child,  I  intend  building  you  a  home ; 
one  worthy  of  the  womanhood  I  hope  you  will  one 
day  attain." 

I  was  somewhat  surprised  at  this  revelation. 

"  But  the  old  homestead  at  the  Pines,  surely  that  is 
not  to  be  torn  down  ?" 


THE    LAST    DAYS    AT  THE    PINES.  49 

"  No,  no  not  that ;  but,  Mattie,  you  will  not  always 
be  a  simple,  unconscious  girl ;  the  time  will  come 
when  another  will  come  between  your  heart  and 
mine;  another  will  bestow  his  name  upon  you,  and 
then  I  can  leave  you  here,  while  I  retire  to  m^  old 

ar;idr' ' ''-  ^^"^^-'^^■^  °^  -^  ^^^^  ^^  p- 

I  was  pained  at  the  idea  of  my  ever  marrying.     I 
tated  even  the  thought,  indeed.     It  was  a  girlish  re- 
solution     had  formed;  but  I  had  determfned  on  a  ■ 
hfe  of  celibacy,  to  be  one  of  the  number  denominated 
by  shallow  minds,  "crusty  old  maids."     I  believe  I 
made  an  attempt  to  answer,  and  stammered  forth  some 
incoherent  sentences,  but  my  father  continued  to  poin 
out  the  beauties  and  eligibilities  of  the  situation'  the 
farm-houses  lying  ,n  the  low  lands  like  white  d^ves 
nestling  down  in  peaceful  nests  amid  fields  of  corn 
and  wheat.     To  the  right,  like  a  garden  of  verdure 
lay  his  Beechdale  farm,  tenanted  by  three  odd  old 
maids ;  and  away  to  tfce  left,  far  beyond  the  pines,  the 
great  city,  with  its  shadowy,  indistinct  spires  glistening 
m  the  sun.     It  was  indeed  a  fine  prospect,  and  I 
felt  It  m  every  fibre-a  sort  of  soul-expansion  such  as 
we  experience  on  contemplating  any  fine  work  of  art 
or  genius,  only  here  God  was  the  genius  that  fashioned 

Leaving  Oak  Mountain,  we  passed  some  laborers  in 
a  field,  husking  corn,  I  think,  and  soon  came  to  a 
slope  of  rocky  soil  where  a  shaft  had  been  sunk,  and 


50  THE   LAST   DAYS   AT   THE   FIXES. 

my  father  informed  me  here  was  the  quarry  where 
he  should  get  the  stone  for  building  material.  It  was 
a  dark-brown  and  compact  rock,  and  just  suited 
the  flmcy  which  I  had  for  strong,  gloomy-looking 
houses. 

When  we  returned  again  to  the  Pines,  I  found 
borne  had  more  ties  for  me  than  I  imagined ;  such 
ties  as  these  we  never  feel  until  they  are  about  to  be 
broken.  I  saw  little  of  my  father  that  day  again, 
for  he  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  away  over  to 
Beechdale. 


GOING  FEOM  HOME.  51 


CHAPTER  YIII. 

Watts  s  Hymns.—  Going  out  from  Home.     Hoylestown  Semijiary. 

OxHE  more  little  walk  amid  the  grand  old  pines, 
one  more  short  lingering  visit  to  my  lonely  grave. 
This  is  the  last  morning  at  the  old  home.  When 
I  return  again  a  change  will  have  come  over  the 
spirit  of  my  life,  a  new  threshold  will  have  to  be 
crossed  ;  I  leave  this  old  house  as  home  for  the  last 
time.  How  glorious  the  crown  that  autumn  has 
flung  down  upon  the  woods — 

"  A  spirit  haunts  the  year's  last  hours ; 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing  bowers, 

To  himself  he  talks ; 
For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly, 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and  sigh 
In  the  walks ; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy  stalks 
Of  the  mouldering  flowers. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger  hly." 

^  The  hand  on  the  broad  old  Saxon  dial  pointed  to 
the  large  Roman  numeral— ten  ;  at  half  past,  the  vil- 
lage coach  would  be  at  the  door. 


52  GOING   FROM   HOME. 

How  my  heart  fluttered  and  kept  time  with  the 
great  pendulum  as  it  swung  to  and  fro,  ticking  the 
moments  awaj. 

Mrs.  Whipple  came  to  me,  and  with  a  far-fetched 
sigh  of  genuine  feeling — not  for  my  departure,  but 
for  the  loss  of  her  favorite  volume — presented  me 
with  a  shabbily  bound  copy  of  Watts's  Hymns.  She 
would  go  about  her  household  duties  for  hours  sing- 
ing these  hymns  in  her  antiquated  voice ;  she  seldom 
became  angry;  when  she  did,  however,  her  spleen 
soon  subsided  into  her  favorite  hymn  tune : 

"  Come,  ye  sinners,  poor  and  needy. 
Weak  and  wounded,  sick  and  sore," 

or  some  one  of  the  hundreds  she  held  at  her  com- 
mand. 

I  knew  the  pang  of  regret  which  it  must  have 
cost  her  to  make  this  sacrifice  for  me,  and  I  insisted 
that  she  should  keep  it  for  her  own  use.  With  a 
mock-sorrowful  countenance  she  said  : 

"  Oh,  Miss,  if  they  only  do  the  good  for  you  they 
have  done  for  me — comforting  soul  and  body — I 
shall  be  thankful.  Many  is  the  blessed  time  I  have 
forgot  all  earthly  sorrow  in  singing  the  songs  of  the 
Lamb,  but  I  have  enough  by  heart  to  last  me  until 
the  end,  which  approacheth  speedily,  perchance." 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Whipple,"  said  I.  "  I  appre- 
ciate your  good  wishes,  and  hope  some  day  to  be 


GOINa   FROM   HOME.  53 

worthy  of  more  of  your  esteem  than  I  have  been, 
even  to  the  cooking  of  a  partridge." 

"  Ah,  child,"  said  the  good  matron,  blowing  her 
nose  vociferously  with  her  flaming  handkerchief, 
"  don't  remember  those  trifles  against  me  ;  that  was 
what  made  my  poor  dear  Jeremiah  leave  me,  never 
to  come  back  any  more.  If  thy  tongue  ofiend  thee, 
etc.  Poor  Jerry  !  Poor  Jerry !"  and  the  house- 
keeper fell  into  a  tit  of  weeping.  This  was  not  the 
first  time  her  deceased  husband,  who  had  proved  a 
renegade  from  connubial  felicity  during  his  life,  had 
been  spoken  of  and  paraded  by  Mrs.  Whipple. 
Whenever  you  caught  her  in  a  sad  mood  or  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  you  might  know  that  she  was 
thinking  of  "  poor,  dear  Jerry."  She  replaced  her 
rumpled  cap-frill  and  in  a  few  moments  was  calm 
as  ever. 

"  Don't  forget  that  I  have  put  some  luncheon  in 
your  satchel,  child,  for  you  will  be  hungry  enough 
before  you  ^et  to  Hoylestown." 

I  promised  her  to  remember,  and  she  left  the 
room,  returning  shortly  with  my  shawl  and  hat.  I 
took  advantage  of  her  absence  to  examine  the  book 
which  she  had  given  me.  It  had  evidently  been 
well  used ;  it  was  tear-stained  and  yellow  ;  on  the  fly 
leaf  was  written,  in  a  bold  and  rather  masculine 
hand,  "  Nancy  from  Jerry,"  and  to  this  was  added 
"  Martha  Klopenstene  from  J^ancy  Whipple,"  with 
the  following  Scriptural  passage  beneath :  "  Seek 


54  GOING   FROM   HOME. 

and  je  shall  find,  knock  and  it  shall  be  opened  unto 
you."  My  father  came  in  shortly  witli  rather  a  sad 
expression  on  his  countenance — something  like  the 
old  severity.  I  divined  the  cause,  for  in  his  hand 
he  held  my  mother's  jewel-case. 

"  Here,  take  these ;  keep  them ;  they  were  your 
mother's,"  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes  he  turned  from 
me.  I  opened  the  little  box,  and  there  witliin  was 
a  gold  watch  and  chain  of  antique  pattern,  a  brooch 
and  diamond  ring,  on  the  top  of  which  was  a  slip 
of  paper.  On  it  was  written,  in  a  neat  female  hand  : 
"For  my  daughter,  to  be  given  to  her  when  she 
shall  enter  school." 

There  was  no  signature,  but  the  tear  that  fell  on 
the  paper  was  a  proof  that  my  heart  had  Avritten 
mother  there.  It  was  a  strange  group  gathered 
about  the  door  while  my  trunks  and  boxes  were  be- 
ing lashed  to  the  rack. 

My  father,  wlio  was  to  accompany  me,  was  the 
central  figure;  Mrs.  Whipple  and  Aun^ Dinah,  the 
cook,  in  the  background.  Dinah,  with  her  neatly 
turbaned  head,  pressed  her  broad  African  nose  close 
to  the  back  of  my  hand  as  she  strove  to  kiss  it,  and 
Mrs.  Whipple  did  not  stop  to  think  of  the  conse- 
quences to  her  new  and  prodigious  cap-frill  as  I 
threw  my  arms  around  her  neck,  hugging  and  kiss- 
ing her  in  a  girlish  fashion. 

"  Come,"  said  my  father,  and  with  his  strong  arms 
he  lifted  me  into  the  coach.     With  some  general 


GOING  FROM   HOME.  55 

orders  to  Mrs.  Whipple  and  old  Peter,  he  followed. 
The  driver  cracked  his  whip  in  an  energetic  manner  ; 
a  shout,  the  rumbling  of  wheels,  and  we  soon  lost 
sight  of  my  dear  old  Pines.  It  was  a  long  and 
tedious  journey,  with  no  scenery  of  more  than  ordi- 
nary interest  to  enliven  the  way.  Hoylestown  was 
about  twenty-five  miles  from  Haddonsfield,  and  I 
remember  falling  asleep  with  my  head  resting  on 
my  father's  shoulder.  When  I  awoke,  two  new  pas- 
sengers had  got  into  the  coach — an  elderly  lady  and 
a  slender  girl  of  about  my  own  age. 

She  was  a  bright,  beautiful  girl,  with  rosy  cheeks, 
sunny  curls,  and  such  a  winning  smile  hovering 
about  her  childlike  mouth,  so  much  soul  speaking 
from  her  eyes,  that  I  was  drawn  towards  her  by  some 
invisible  attraction.  My  heart  stood  up  and  said 
unto  me,  there  is  one  worthy  the  right  of  fellowship. 
Our  eyes  met  many  times  before  we  arrived  at  our 
journey's  end.  I  was  not  a  little  surprised  and  dis- 
appointed when  we  arrived  and  halted  in  front  of^a 
long  row  of  low  two-story  buildings,  standing  next 
to  the  village  church,  with  a  great  porch  running 
their  entire  length. 

This,  then,  was  Mrs.  Osgood's  famous  seminary— a 
sort  of  machine  into  which  you  placed  ignorant,  un- 
polished girls,  and  after  the  revolution  of  a  few 
years  on  the  wheels  of  time,  they  emerge  in  all  the 
glory  of  polished  womanhood. 

The  young  girl  and  elderly  lady  alighted  with  us. 


56  GOING   FROM   HOME. 

The  former  looked  so  frail  as  she  stood  there  in  the 
glow  of  the  setting  sun,  the  wind  blowing  the  golden 
curls  all  over  her  face,  I  thought  of  a  sweet  frail 
vine  blown  by  the  wind,  with  no  support  for  its 
clinging  tendrils,  and  I  let  the  sweet  picture  steal 
into  my  heart.  She  blushed  deeply  as  the  elder 
lady,  who  proved  to  be  her  aunt,  introduced  her  to 
Mrs.  Osgood,  who  had  come  out  to  meet  us. 

"  Annie  Glyde" — I  caught  the  name,  and  I  think 
there  is  much  in  a  name,  in  spite  of  Will  Shak- 
speare's  assertion  in  his  Romeo  and  Juliet.  It  was 
as  sweet  and  beautiful  in  its  liquid  sound  as  the  girl 
that  bore  it.  My  father  turned  and  said  :  "  Excuse 
me ;  Mrs.  Osgood  my  daughter,"  and  imprinting  a 
kiss  hastily  on  my  brow,  he  spra,ng  into  the  coach 
which  was  in  waiting  and  left  me  standing  there 
alone,  a  stranger  amongst  strangers,  with  the  tears 
falling  slowly  from  my  eyes. 

The  strange  woman  also  took  the  return  coach, 
but  Annie  Glyde  did  not  weep  ;  she  stood  there  so 
mute  and  melancholy  in  her  girlish  beauty,  that  I 
could  not  help  but  give  her  a  smile  through  my 
tears,  which  said  as  plainly  as  I  could  have  spoken 
it,  "•  Let  us  be  friends."  The  sequel  of  our  lives  will 
prove  that  it  was  a  compact  that  endured  until 
eternity.  Mrs.  Osgood  was  a  matronly,  quiet,  digni- 
fied woman,  with  a  sparse  cap,  and  a  diminutive 
crape  shawl  drawn  across  her  shoulders,  pinned  be- 
fore ;  a  smile  that  was  somewhat  afi'ected  but  not 


GOING  FROM  HOME.  57 

habitual,  and  withal  a  Quakeress.  She  gave  us  a 
warm  and  motherly  welcome  to  Hojlestown  Semi- 
nary, as  the  school  was  christened,  and  led  us  into  a 
long  narrow  room,  where  about  one  hundred  girls, 
aged  from  fourteen  to  twenty,  were  busily  engaged 
in  demolishing  whatever  was  set  before  them.  I 
cannot  describe  my  emotions  on  entering  this  room. 
It  looked  more  like  a  huge  gormandizing  machine 
than  a  young  ladies'  supper-room.  They  were  all 
80  quiet,  that  the  click  of  the  knives  and  forks 
sounded  not  unlike  the  clatter  of  mill  machinery. 

All  eyes  were  turned  upon  us  as  we  entered,  in 
spite  of  the  matron's  frown.  We  were  seated  side 
by  side  in  this  trying  moment  for  a  timid  girl,  Annie 
Glyde  and  I — and  from  that  hour  our  two  hearts 
sat  down  to  a  life  communion,  which,  if  broken  here 
below,  will  be  renewed  in  eternity,  beyond  the  pearl 
gates  and  golden  portals.  Oh,  sweet  and  bright  morn- 
ing-star of  my  heart,  how  soon  the  glare  and  the 
brightness  of  life's  full  day  brought  thee  to  thy 
setting ! 

"  Oh,  if  thou  e'er  hast  wronged  her,  if  thou  e'er 
From  those  mild  eyes  hast  caused  one  bitter  tear 
To  flow  unseen — Repent,  and  sm  no  more." 
3* 


58  LAST  DAYS   AT  MRS.   OSGOOD'S. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Last  Days  at  Mrs.  Osgood's — An7iie  Glyde  and  I—  Womwrdiood. 

"  How  beautiful  !"  exclaimed  Annie  Glyde,  as  she 
drew  the  comb  from  my  hair  and  let  it  fall  in  wavy 
folds  about  my  shoulders.  "  Why  do  you  confine 
such  glorious  hair  about  your  head  ?  I  never  look  at 
it  but  I  think  of  the  mermaids  and  sea-nymphs, 
wdiose  only  mantle  is  their  flowing,  wavy  tresses. 
Let  me  show  you  how  I  like  to  see  it,"  and  sweet 
Annie  brushed  the  dark  wavy  tresses  out  into  beau- 
tiful ripples  upon  my  brow,  and  arranged  a  tableau 
for  her  own  gratification  before  the  mirror.  It  was 
not  a  beautiful  face  I  saw  reflected  there  before  me. 
The  features  were  irregular.  My  only  glory  was  my 
long,  thick,  black  hair,  from  which  I  never  could 
brush  the  wave,  and, which  sweet  Annie  Glyde  was 
so  fond  of  likening  to  a  midnight  sea,  ever  in  mo- 
tion, glistening  in  the  moonlight.  Perhaps  my  only 
beauty  was  my  eyes  ;  they  were  black  and  full ;  and 
the  woman's  pride  within  me  whispered — there,  at 
least,  was  one  attraction  in  the  shadow  of  the  mirror. 

"  You  are  not  beautiful,  and  yet  you  are  beautiful 
to  me,"  said  Annie  Glyde,  as  she  arranged  my  regal 
crown   to  suit  her  fancy.     "Now  you  look* like  a 


LAST  DAYS  AT  MRS.   OSGOOD'S.  59 

queen,  and  here  is  your  throne."  She  drew  me  to- 
wards an  easy  chair  that  was  a  part  of  our  furniture 
in  the  little  room  at  Mrs.  Osgood's. 

"  Were  I  a  queen,  I  should  be  as  jealous  as  Queen 
Elizabeth  was  of  Scotland's  Mary,  with  such  a  be- 
witching creature  as  you  mingling  with  my  courtiers." 

"  But  you  would  not  treat  me  so  cruelly  and  un- 
sisterly,  would  you?  I  should  fall  at  the  foot  of 
your  throne,"  and  she  knelt  on  the  floor  before  my 
chair,  "  reminding  you  of  my  former  good  offices, 
.when  we  were  schoolmates  at  Hoylestown  together, 
and  I  know  I  should  read  forgiveness  in  Queen 
Elizabeth's  good  melting  eyes.  Do  you  know  I  can 
see  through  your  eyes  until  I  imagine  I  get  a 
glimpse  of  your  soul  ?  They  remind  me  of  windows 
with  curtains  drawn  and  a  room  illuminated,  but 
filled  with  such  strange  furniture  and  peopled  by 
such  quaint  images,  that  I  cannot  for  the  life  of  me 
tell  whether  I  look  into  a  gloomy  dungeon  of  some 
prison-house  or  on  some  gay  and  festive  scene  ;  they 
alternate  so  rapidly  from  gloom  to  sunshine,  that  I 
cannot  understand  you."  At  this  strange  and  poetic 
exposition  of  my  character,  I  burst  into  laughter. 
"  There  it  is  now ;  a  moment  ago  you  were  as  dig- 
nified and  stately  as  if  you  did  indeed  occupy  a 
throne ;  now  you  are  laughing  at  me  and  ridiculing 
me  ;  I  said  nothing  ludicrous,  did  I  ?" 

Her  sweet  face  saddened  so  suddenly  that  I  pulled 
her  towards  me  and  kissed  her.     This  was  our  last 


60 

day  at  school.  Togetlier  we  had  grown  up  out  of 
girlhood  to  women  of  eighteen,  and  if  the  true  wo- 
man is  not  developed  at  that  age,  I  think  that  all 
the  future  weight  of  years  will  never  set  a  brigliter 
seal  upon  it.  For  us,  childhood  and  girlhood,  the 
dreamy  spring  and  summer  of  life,  were  now  rolled 
away  like  a  scroll  into  oblivion,  and  the  waves  of 
riper  life,  with  their  ceaseless  turmoil,  were  to  dash 
in  restless  commotion  over  their  beautiful  wrecks 
for  ever. 

Thi-ee  years  ago  to-day,  since  our  arrival  at  Mrs.  • 
Osgood's ;  how  swiftly  the  time  had  rolled  away  ! 

Three  years,  day  after  day  in  monotonous  routine, 
the  jpater  noster  at  early  morn  repeated  in  concert 
by  a  hundred  voices,  then  Scriptural  readings,  French, 
music,  and  lessons  whose  modern  names  I  forget,  all 
have  vanished  into  the  past — with  the  thoughts,  the 
emotions,  and  the  griefs  of  girlhood,  into  the  past 
that  shall  not  give  up  its  dead  until  the  great  sea 
giveth  up  hers.  I  received  two  letters  from  the 
Pines  yesterday.  A  brief  and  laconical  one  from 
my  father,  and  a  gossiping  one  signed  with  the 
broad  signature  of  Xancy  Whipple.  My  father's 
ran  thus  :  "  My  Daughter. — You  w^ill  prepare  foi; 
home  immediately  on  receipt  of  this.  TVe  are  in  the 
new  house  at  Oak  Mountain.  Your  schoolmate, 
Annie  Glyde,  is  welcome  to  the  Pines ;  bring  her 
with  you." 

Mrs.  Whipple's  was  one  of   greater,  length.    1 


61 

give  an  extract  from  it.  "  The  Lord  help  ns,  young 
lady,  there  are  strange  stories  afloat  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  Pines  about  a  white  figure  tliat 
has  been  seen  at  night  standing  in  the  graveyard 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  The  old  tenement  house  at 
the  lane's  end  has  been  let,  notwithstanding  the  wide 
rumors  of  its  being  haunted.  You  know  it  has 
stood  empty  since  your  grandfather's  death,  many 
years  ago.  An  old  man,  called  Christopher,  is 
your  father's  tenant,  a  strange  man  of  whom  no- 
body knows  anything ;  and  the  Lord  only  knows 
how  he  can  stop  there  o'  nights,  but  he  does  stay 
there  night  and  day,  and  nobody  has  seen  him  leave 
the  house.  I  need  all  the  strength  of  grace  (and 
Watts's  Hymns  she  should  have  added)  to  keep- 
me  from  putting  faith  in  these  machinations  of 
the  evil  one.  How  I  dread  these  stories  ;  they  keep 
me  awake  o'  nights,  and  last  night  I  actually  mis- 
took my  bolster  for  a  ghost.  I  am  afraid  to  go  to 
the  village  alone  even  in  broad  day.  To  think  it 
has  come  to  this,  I,  I^ancy  Whipple,  afraid  of 
spirits,  and  I  a  professing  disciple."  Here  the  house- 
keeper broke  into  some  admonitions  about  my 
journey,  of  little  interest  to  the  reader. 

Her  story  reminded  me  of  my  own  experience 
away  back  in  the  years,  and  I  thought  the  mystery 
would  result  in  the  same  solution.  I  thought  little 
more  of  the  matter  ;  the  strange  joy  that  was  thrill- 
ing through  me  was  the  thought  of  home,  my  fa- 


62  LAST   DAYS  AT   MRS.   OSGOOD'S. 

tlier,  and  the  dear  old  Pines  again.  Sweet  Annie 
Glyde  was  to  accompany  me ;  this  thought  rendered 
the  separation  from  all  others  an  easy  task.  My 
heart  had  not  gone  out  towards  many  ;  I  was  a  strong 
lover,  but  a  lover  of  few.  I  thought  of  Oak  Moun- 
tain and  its  new  home — we  had  not  yet  named  it ; 
my  father  wrote  me  that  the  duty  was  left  for  me. 
It  was  on  the  slope  of  the  hill,  and  I  had  long  ago 
determined  to  christen  it  Oak  Side,  which  would 
come  near  its  original  name;  so  henceforth  in  this 
book  it  will  be  known  as  Oak  Side.  The  old  haunts 
at  the  Pines  had  not  lost  all  their  charm  for  me,  al- 
though I  was  no  longer  the  girl  that  crossed  the 
threshold  of  Mrs.  Osgood's  three  years  ago.  During 
that  period  my  maturer  womanhood  had  roused  it- 
self and  cast  off  the  sandals  of  youth  ;  yet  it  had  not 
disrobed  me  of  my  girlish  fancies  and  tastes.  I  was 
not  old  in  heart  j  I  felt  as  fresh  and  joyous  as  ever, 
perhaps  several  shades  more  thoughtful. 

I  only  remem"^er  the  joy  that  dissolved  in  tears 
as  I  threw  myself  into  my  father's  arms,  and  Annie 
Glyde  and  I  went  away  from  the  irksome  task  of 
studied  application  to  lessons,  out  into  life,  to  weave 
the  threads  that  run  through  this  story  into  our 
lives,  and  study  the  deeper  lessons  of  an  all-wise 
Teacher  who  has  made  the  world  his  school-room,  a 
place  of  preparation  for  the  duties  of  eternity. 


OAK  SIDE.  63 


CHAPTER  X. 


Oak  Side— Annie  Qlyde's  Lover— The  New  Tenant  in  tie  Old 
House  at  the  Pines. 

It  was  a  grand,  ancient-looking  structure  that  my 
father  Lad  built  for  our  future  dwelling  at  Oak 
Side.  It  reminded  me  of  those  old  feudal  castles 
whose  mutilated  and  ruined  remnants  still  linger 
like  historical  wrinkles  on  the  face  of  old  England's 
soil.  It  was  midsummer  when  Annie  Glyde  and  I 
came  out  of  the  shadow  of  Hoylestown  Seminary 
into  the  light  of  home,  and  Mrs.  Whipple  had  every 
window  of  the  house  open,  for  she  asserted  that  the 
malarious  damps  still  clung  to  the  walls.  It  was  a 
luxurious  home,  but  my  heart  sometimes  yearned 
for  the  simple  domestic  comfort  of  the  dear  old 
house  at  the  Pines.  My  father's  health  was  fast 
failing.  A  dry  cough  attacked  him  in  the  evenings 
after  bedtime;  his  frame  was  losing  its  wonted 
vigor.  I  would  insist  upon  his  consulting  Drs. 
Thornton  or  WoodruflP,  but  he  resisted  all  my  ap- 
peals. 

"Father,. do  let  me  send  for  the  doctor;  you  are 
not  well;  indeed  you  are  not,"  and  the  tears 
would  come  into  my  eyes  as  he  answered  in  that 
■unconscious  nonchalant  manner : 


64  OAK  SIDE. 

"  "  ]S"ot  looking  well ;  why,  liow  you  talk,  daughter ; 
I  never  felt  better  in  my  life." 

He  did  not  know  that  I  had  heard  that  dread 
precursor  of  consumption,  the  stealthy,  serpent- 
like rattle — a  dry  cough — slowly  but  surely  gain- 
ing empire  over  him  day  by  day.  A  few  evenings 
later,  in  the  dusk,  my  father  and  I  were  sitting  in 
the  back  parlor  conversing  on  this  very  subject,  and 
I  was  pained  to  see  that  his  sole  earthly  wish  seem- 
ed to  be  my  settlement  in  life.  "  For,"  he  said,  "  a 
woman  is  never  happy  in  this  world  alone.  God  in 
his  infinite  wisdom  made  her  as  a  companion  for 
man ;  not  merely  a  companion  in  prosperity,  but  a 
helpmate  in  adversity.  I  should  never  die  content- 
edly, my  daughter,  unless  I  saw  you  Avedded  first  to 
a  man  worthy  of  you  and  capable  of  protecting  you 
from  all  the  ills  of  life."  In  vain  I  urged  that  happi- 
ness w-as  to  be  attained  and  enjoyed  in  a  single  state. 

"  Was  Adam  happy,  amid  all  the  glory  of  Para- 
dise, alone  ?  K  his  happiness  would  have  been 
complete  without,  or  endangered  by  a  companion, 
would  not  an  all-wise  God  have  denied  the  boon  ?" 

I  was  perplexed.  I  folded  my  arms  and  sat  very 
still,  looking  out  into  the  darkness.  My  father  went 
on  : 

''  I  promise  you,  my  child,  it  is  for  your  own 
good  I  speak  thus  ;  you  shall  not  marry  without  your 
own  free  will  and  choice  ;  I  shall  interfere  only  when 
I  see  your  future  welfare  and  happiness  in  peril. 


OAK  SIDE.  65 

You  know  my  wishes  now,  but  do  not  consider  them 
binding  ;  if  you  prefer  it,  live  alone." 

He  sighed  deeply.  With  the  tears  flowing  from 
my  eyes  at  this  token  of  his  unselfish  love  for  me,  I 
laid  my  head  on  his  bosom,  he  encircled  me  with 
his  parental  arm,  and  for  many  minutes  we  said  not 
a  word.  The  subject  was  never  afterwards  renew- 
ed ;  it  seemed  to  have  dropped  out  of  time  into 
eternity.  But  it  did  not  leave  my  mind  for  many  a 
day.  It  was  my  trouble  by  day  and  my  dream  at 
night.  I  looked  about  me  over  the  list  of  marriage- 
able men  that  visited  my  father's  house,  for  there  were 
many  visitors  now  that  we  had  our  new  establish- 
ment, and  I  saw  not  one  that  even  fancy  could 
clothe  with  the  dignity  of  a  noble  manhood. 

So  strange  and  incomprehensible  a  thing  is  wo- 
man's love,  that,  if  Jupiter  were  to  command  her  to 
select  one  out  of  the  universe,  one  whom  she  must 
love,  obey,  and  honor,  I  believe  that  the  door  of  her 
heart  would  close  against  such  tyranny,  and  she 
would  either  fall  in  love  with  an  angel  or  a  devil,  in 
order  to  exert  the  divine  right  of  free  choice. 

About  this  time  my  father  was  applied  to  by  a 
gentleman,  a  friend  of  his,  through  a  letter  from  the 
city,  recommending  an  acquaintance  as  a  tenant  for 
the  old  homestead,  which  had  stood  empty  and  de- 
serted since  our  removal  to  Oak  Side.  '*  There  will 
be  no  one  but  himself,  and  perhaps  a  servant ;  he  is 
a  young  bachelor  in  poor  health,  and  wishes  some 


6Q  OAK   SIDE. 

place  in  the  country  where  he  may  recruit  his 
strength.  You  will  find  him  an  agreeable  com- 
panion, but  a  strange  sort  of  a  man  witlial.  His 
rent  will  be  forwarded  immediately  on  receipt  of  a 
favorable  answer."  Thus  ran  the  letter,  and  it  was 
signed  by  an  intimate  friend  of  my  father's. 

This  letter  pleased  my  father.  He  had  an  antipa- 
thy to  seeing  the  old  house  at  the  Pines  standing 
there  amid  its  garden  trees  and  shrubs,  deserted  and 
alone,  going  to  decay.  In  fact  so  had  I ;  it  was  the 
nucleus  around  which  many  and  all  of  my  early  as- 
sociations clustered.  I  loved  the  old  spot,  and  I 
seldom  rode  out  on  my  Arabian  pony — an  exercise 
of  which  I  was  always  very  fond,  and  to  this  day  I 
never  see  a  woman  on  a  horse  but  a  strange  tin- 
gle of  admiration  fills  me — without  guiding  my 
horse  down  the  old  red  lane,  which  was  beginning, 
like  some  deserted  mart  of  trade,  to  show  grassy 
tokens  of  neglected  travel. 

There  was  a  delicious  odor  of  sweet  fern,  and 
hickory,  and  sweet  clover,  about  this  lane,  that  I 
never  noticed  anywhere  else.  The  bees  loved  to 
linger  in  the  angles  of  the  old  fence,  and  the  cattle 
loved  to  graze  there.  I  was  glad,  then,  when  my 
father  decided  that  the  old  house  should  be  inhabit- 
ed again.  The  closed  and  darkened  windows  would 
be  open  to  the  breath  of  summer,  human  footsteps 
once  more  echo  throughout  the  deserted  rooms, 
and  my  old  Hibernian  soldier  once  more  open  his 


OAK  SIDE.  67 

eyes  with  the  glow  of  candlelight  and  a  hearth  fire. 
The  honeysuckles,  the  sweetbriers,  and  the  alder- 
bushes  that  made  a  dark  fringe  along  the  fence, 
would  again  be  the  scene  of  bird  flirtations  and  bird 
courtships.  It  was  a  wet,  rainy  morning,  tliat  my 
father  went  out  on  his  way  to  the  old  house  at  the 
Pines,  and  Annie  Glyde  and  I  were  reading  a 
quaint  old  play  that  we  had  discovered  hidden  away 
with  some  of  my  father's  old  books. 

"We  had  a  fashion,  perhaps  peculiar  to  ourselves,  of 
each  assuming  a  character  and  reading  the  dialogue 
by  turns.  I  had  assumed  the  role  of  a  passionate 
lover  (for  it  was  an  old,  old  love  tale),  and  she  was 
the  gentle  and  beautiful  shepherdess  that  disdained 
my  proflered  wealth  and  title.  I  always  took  the 
character  of  wooer,  and  I  had  just  come  to  the 
climax  of  the  piece,  the  part  where  the  author  had 
exerted  himself  to  portray  the  divine  passion  and 
the  young  lord  was  supposed  to  be  on  his  knees  at 
the  feet  of  the  beautiful  maid,  when  we  heard  the 
indistinct  air  of  one  of  Mrs.  Whipple's  hymns  re- 
sounding nearer  and  nearer,  until  she  finally  came 
bustling  into  the  room  with  a  card  in  hand. 

"Captain  Courtenay's  card;  he  asks  for  the 
ladies." 

f     Sweet  Annie  Glyde  blushed  crimson  all  over  her 
fair  roseate  cheeks  at  this  announcement. 

"  Tell  Captain  Courtenay,"  said  I,  looking  towards 
Annie  Glyde,  "  that  Annie  will  be  down  in  a  mo- 


68  OAK   SIDE. 

ment,  but  that  I  am  engaged  this  mornhig  and  can- 
not come." 

''Oh,  wait,  Mrs.  Whipple;  yon  vjill  go  do\vn  witli 
me,  won't  you  ?"  and  slie  looked  at  me  so  provo- 
kingly  pitiful,  with  such  earnest  alarm  in  her  face. 

''Nay,  my  beautiful  shepherdess,  you  just  now 
disdained  me  when  kneeling  humbly  at  your  feet ; 
henceforth  my  heart  is  steeled  against  you.  Per- 
haps when  a  certain  gentleman,  now  beneath  this 
roof,  tries  the  same  experiment,  you  will  not  proye 
so  obdurate." 

She  looked  at  me  as  if  to  implore  my  silence,  and 
with  the  crimson  deepening  on  her  fair  neck  and 
cheeks,  and  a  laughing  glitter  of  pride  in  her  eyes, 
she  went  down  stairs  alone  to  meet  him.  This  was 
as  I  wished,  and  as  it  should  be.  I  knew  that  Captain 
Courtenay  only  mentioned  my  name  out  of  polite- 
ness, and  that  it  was  my  guest  that  he  wished  to 
see.  If  there  is  anything  despicable,  it  is  a  woman 
that  is  always  thrusting  herself  into  company  where 
she  is  not  congenial ;  and  loyers,  especially,  neyer 
get  along  better  than  when  alone.  Captain  Courte- 
nay was  the  only  son  of  a  wealthy  farmer,  a  neighbor 
of  my  father's,  and  in  eyery  way  worthy  of  my 
sweet  Annie  Glyde.  I  was  not  a  little  jealous  when 
she  told  me  that  she  liked  him,  for  I  knew  how  a 
woman's  liking  ended.  I  felt  that  I  had  reason  to 
be  jealous;  my  title  was  clear  to  her  possession  ;  she 
was  an  orphan,  and  I  was  motherless ;  she  was  my 


OAK   SIDE.  69 

more  than  sister — mine,  my  counterpart.  Ca,ptain 
Courtenay  was  handsome,  possessed  of  a  large  share 
of  common  sense  and  education,  and  a  gentleman 
withal ;  and  I  was  somewhat  pleased,  therefore,  to 
see  a  new  proof  of  his  wisdom  in  his  appreciation 
of  Annie  Glyde.  I  knew  how  it  would  end  ;  and 
after  she  went  below  I  went  on  with  my  dramatic 
tale.  The  beautiful  shepherdess,  after  refusing  the 
proffered  suit  of  the  nobleman,  fell  in  love  with  a 
,youth  of  lower  degree. 

The  story  went  on  to  show  how  she  had  given  her 
heart  unsought ;  and  one  day  the  youth,  while  hunt- 
ing, came  upon  the  beautiful  and  lifeless  corpse  of 
the  shepherdess  lying  in  sight  of  her  deserted  flocks ; 
he  found  a  trinket  which  he  had  given  her  at  the 
last  village  fair  pressed  to  her  lips,  which  were 
white  and  bloodless,  and  this  told  the  tale  of  her  un- 
requited love.  I  had  just  finished  the  melancholy 
recital  when  Mrs.  Whipple  came  into  the  room  a 
second  time,  asking  for  my  father. 

"  Who  wishes  to  see  him  ?"  I  asked  ;  "  he  has  gone 
over  to  the  old  house.     Can  I  see  the  person  ?" 

"  I  guess  it's  the  new  tenant,"  she  said  ;  "  but  he 
has  no  umbrella,  and  is  sitting  on  his  horse  out  there 
in  the  rain." 

"  Why  didn't  you  ask  him  in  ?"  asked  I,  sharply. 

"  He  wouldn't  come  in  ;  he  only  wanted  to  speak 
to  your  father  a  moment." 

"  Tell  him  that  I  am  at  home ;  I  will  be  down  at 


70  OAK  SIDE. 

once  and  ask  the  gentleman  in.  Stop,"  said  T,  as 
I  tli()ii£::lit  of  the  impropriety  of  the  act  "  Tell 
him  my  father  lias  orone  over  to  the  old  house  at 
the  Pines  to  make  preparations  for  his  arrival,  and 
if  he  will  ride  over  he  will  find  him  there." 

I  pushed  the  curtain  aside  to  gain  a  view  of  the 
horse  and  rider  without  my  person  being  seen;  very 
unladylike  to  be  sure,  but  I  like  to  look  at  people 
when  they  are  totally  unconscious  of  my  scrutiny  ; 
they  are  unmasked,  and  you  see  them  often  as  they 
really  are.  I  don't  like  a  man  that  wears  a  holiday 
dress,  a  man  that  uses  holiday  conversation,  nor  a 
man  that  never  smiles  unless  you  are  looking  at 
him  ;  such  are  deceitful.  It  was  rather  a  sorry-look- 
ing figure  for  a  knight  or  a  cavalier  of  the  olden 
time  that  I  saw  sitting  out  there  in  the  rain.  He 
was  certainly  totally  unconscious  that  any  human 
eye  was  upon  him,  and  I  think  would  have  cared  as 
little  had  he  known  that  I  was  examining  him  with 
a  woman's  scrutiny  ;  for  he  sat  there  in  an  indepen- 
dent, idle  sort  of  way,  heedless  of  the  wet,  slashing.his 
whip  up  and  down  upon  his  horse's  raane,  making  a 
mimic  shower  of  rain-drops  fall  with  each  stroke. 
He  looked  little  like  an  invalid.  I  could  not  see  his 
face  from  my  elevation  ;  only  a  dark-brown,  curly 
beard  was  visible  beneath  the  brim  of  his  hat.  His 
figure  was  not  athletic,  but  it  was  of  a  tall,  graceful 
mould. 

Mrs.  Whipple  came  out ;  he  lifted  his  hat  and 


OAK  SIDE.  71 

poured  the  water  from  its  brim  while  she  spoke.  I 
caught  an  indistinct  glimpse  of  the  face,  the  dark 
hair  inclined  to  curl ;  he  drew  the  rein,  struck  the 
horse  roughly  with  his  whip,  and  made  the  earth  fly 
about  him  as  he  cantered  away  down  the  lawn.  I 
turned  from  the  window  with  a  laugh  on  my  lips  at 
the  ludicrous  figure  cut  by  my  father's  new  tenant. 


72  THE   SWEEZEY  SISTERS. 


CHAPTER  XL 

Tlie  Swcezey  Sisters — Mr.  Jamieson. 

My  father  did  not  return  from  the  old  house  at 
the  Pines  (which  we  had  now  adopted  from  habit 
as  its  title)  until  quite  late  in  the  evening.  I  liad 
not  seen  so  happy  an  expression  on  his  face  for  many 
a  day. 

"  What  kept  you  so  late,  father  ?" 

"Ah,  ha!  Mattie,  child,"  said  he,  rubbing  his 
hands  gleefully  together,  "  that  new  tenant  of  mine 
is  a  glorious  fellow  ;  would  you  believe  it,  he  actual- 
ly kept  me  there  and  made  me  forget  the  darkness 
with  his  nonsensical  tongue,  as  we  sat  there  for 
hours  by  the  open  hearth  ;  I  looked  back  to  my 
youth,  and  thought  how  1  *had  once  brought  your 
mother  there  in  all  her  girlish  freshness,  and  how 
"we  had  talked  of  the  future,  our  future,  while  gazing 
into  the  same  hearth.  I  like  him,"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  warmly  and  emphatically,  "  and  I  have 
invited  him  to  dine  with  the  party  on  my  birthday." 

"  Why,  father,  how  could  you  ?  You  know  that 
you  have  already  invited  those  three  old  maids,  the 
Sweezey  sisters,  from  Beechdale  ;  and  such  incompati- 
ble elements  should  not  come  in  contact  with  your 


THE  SWEEZEY  SISTERS.  73 

<  glorious  fellow,'  as  you  are  pleased  to  call  him. 
Then  there  is  that  queer,  ludicrous^ Englishman,  Mr. 
Jamieson,  with  his  pet  moustache,  and  no  brains  to 
make  up  for  his  lack  of  politeness." 

"  Come,  mj  little  woman,  you  are  severe  on  my 
friends  and  intended  guests.  My  new  tenant  is  not 
a  fastidious  man,  I'll  warrant  you  ;  none  of  the  milk- 
and-water  sort." 

"  But,  father,  what  is  the  name  of  your  newly- 
fledged  champion  ?  Who  is  he,  what  is  he,  that  he 
should  find  in  you  such  an  early  advocate?  He 
must  agree  with  you  in  politics,  I  guess,  father  ?" 

]^ow  my  dear  father  was  a  man  fond  of  his  own 
opinion,  and  he  was  susceptible  to  flattery  only  on 
this  one  point ;  and  I  smiled  up  into  his  face  as  I 
brought  his  slippers  to  his  easy  chair. 

"ISTo,  no,  you  sly  little  woman;  the  subject  was 
not  mentioned,  and  I  never  thought  of  the  matter 
once  during  the  whole  time.  I  remember  one  fun- 
ny thing  he  said,  however,  in  answer  to  my  question 
why  he  had  never  married.  He  said  that  he  had 
never  loved  a  woman  well  enough  to  marry  her,  and 
did  not  think  there  was  such  a  thing  as  pure  love 
under  heaven ;  that  all  mortal  love  was  alloyed  with 
passion ;  he  did  not  think  or  believe  that  there  was 
a  separate  and  distinct  element  in  our  natures  pure 
enough  to  divest  itself  of  the  baser  instinct  and 
love  divinely  and  purely.  What  a  quaint  doctrine, 
to  be  sure,  for  a  man  of  his  years  ?    Depend  upon  it, 

4 


74  THE   SWEEZEY  SISTERS. 

he  has  had  some  bitter  experience  in  his  earlier 
years.  He  cannot  be  more  than  thirty,  and  to  say 
that  woman  has  no  charms  for  him — it's  strange, 
very  strange ;  wliy,  I  didn't  fall  in  love  until  thirty- 
five  !  Well,  my  child,  don't  lose  your  precious  little 
heart  on  such  a  cold-blooded  man  as  this;  for  he's 
handsome  with  all  his  eccentric  ideas." 

"  Why  do  you  call  his  theory  eccentric,  father  ? 
Do  you  believe  that  pure,  unalloyed  love  is  felt  for 
any  one  but  Deity  ?" 

"  Tut,  tut,  child  ;  it's  heresy,  all  of  it.  Ask  your 
father  such  a  question  !  Do  I  believe  in  it  ?  No, 
no,  indeed  ;  it's  false  from  beginning  to  end.  I  think 
I  loved  your  mother  when  I  married  her." 

I  thought  the  subject  was  an  irritating  one  to  my 
father,  and  I  said : 

"  But  these  Sweezey  sisters,  father,  couldn't  you 
manage  to  invent  some  excuse  to  prevent  their 
coming?  Any  other  day  will  do  just  as  well — they 
cut  such  a  ludicrous  figure  and  say  such  out- 
landish things,  with  their  Quaker  thee  and  thou 
as  a  prelude.  Then  their  great  coal-skuttle  bon- 
nets and  caps  that  astonish  even  Mrs.  Whipple 
with  the  dimensions  of  their  high  crowns — what 
will  your  new  guest  from  the  city  think  of  such 
people  ?" 

"  I  care  not  an  iota  what  he  thinks.  I  tell  you 
he  is  not  a  man  to  notice  such  things.  The  Swee- 
zeys  are  good  tenants  for  my  Beechdale  farm,  and 


THE   SWEEZEY   SISTERS.  75 

come  to  time  with  their  rents  as  regularly  as  clock- 
work. I  respect  them,  and  will  not  countenance 
the  man  that  laughs  at  them  in  my  presence." 

"  I  would  not  have  them  insidted  by  Jamieson's 
caustic  witticisms,  is  another  reason  why  I  would 
have  desired  their  presence  on  any  other  day ;  you 
know  they  always  quarrel." 

"That  rascal,  Jamieson,  has  trodden  on  my  corns 
several  times  of  late.  If  he  presumes  on  my  hos- 
pitality so  far  as  to  pain  any  of  my  guests  by  his 
conduct,  it  shall  be  the  last  time  he  crosses  my 
threshold,  in  spite  of  his  English  blood  and  patri- 
mony. Why,  I  have  seen  those  three  old  maids  out 
in  the  harvest-field,  before  a  coming  storm,  pitching 
hay  with  all  the  muscular  vigor  of  sturdy  manhood ; 
not  only  that,  but  rather  than  borrow  a  horse  of  me, 
they  have  drawn  the  load  to  the  barn  and  racked 
it  themselves.  They  do  not  employ  a  hand  on 
the  place  except  in  the  busiest  season ;  a  happier 
and  a  better  trio  I  do  not  know  in  the  country ; 
and  pitching  hay  is  an  exercise » that  would  make 
Mr.  Jamieson's  hands  blister  in  a  t^Yinkling.  Any 
one,  my  daughter,  who  earns  the  bfead  of  life  by 
the  sweat  of  his  brow  honestly  and  openly  before 
the  world,  is  worthy  of  both  your  respect  and 
mine." 

"  What  you  have  said,  sir,  convinces  me  of  my 
error,  and  changes  my  opinion  of  them  entirely. 
Were  the  President  and  suite  to  honor  us  with  their 


76  THE   SWEEZEY   SISTERS. 

presence  on  the  morrow,  I  could  not  desire  their 
absence;  but  for  all  that,  you  must  admit  that  they 
are  the  oddest,  most  old-fashioned  sort  of  people  in 
existence.  I  can  imagine  women  gleaning  in  the 
time  of  Euth  and  Boaz,  but  for  them  to  do  field 
labor  in  this  century  of  improved  civilization 
grates  upon  the  ear  of  refinement,  and  cannot  fail 
to  draw  a  smile  from  even  the  staid  ;  and  then  1 
remember  when  I  went  with  you  the  last  time  to 
your  Beechdale  farm,  the  only  companions  they 
then  had  were  about  thirty  cats,  of  all  sizes  and 
colors ;  and  their  sole  objects  of  affection  seemed 
to  be  these  same  cats.  They  were  as  solicitous 
about  them  as  if  they  had  been  human.  Surely 
this  taste  is  odd  and  outre  enough  to  make  any  one 
smile." 

"  I  believe  that  I  have  never  related  to  you  the 
history  of  these  sisters  ;  when  you  hear  it,  perhaps 
you  can  account  for  many  of  their  apparent  pecu- 
liarities. The  three  sisters,  Tabitha,  Hannah,  and 
Jemima  Sweezey,  were  born  in  England.  They 
were  the  daughters  of  a  poor  peasant  who  emigrated 
to  this  country  while  they  were  yet  children  ;  he 
died  on  the  passage  out,  and  their  mother  did  not 
long  survive  him.  Helpless  in  their  extreme  youth, 
they  were  taken  by  a  charitable  Quaker  lady  by 
the  name  of  Sweezey  and  adopted  as  her"  own  chil- 
dren. She  was  a  widow  of  some  fortune,  and  re- 
sided on  a  farm  in  the  northern  part  of  this  State  ; 


THE   SWEEZEY  SISTERS.  77 

she  was  an  eccentric,  independent  woman  lierself, 
and  the  three  girls  worked  hard  during  her  lifetime, 
until  at -her  death  she  left  them  quite  a  little  for- 
tune in  household  goods  and  farming  utensils. 
Clinging  together  with  that  sisterly  affection  that  now 
characterizes  them,  they  came  three  years  ago  and 
applied  for  my  Beechdale  farm,  which  then  needed 
a  tenant  badly.  1  was  somewhat  undecided  whe- 
ther women  were  likely  to  make  good  farmers  or 
not,  but  I  determined  finally  to  try  the  experiment ; 
and  I  am  forced  to  say  that  Beechdale  never  had 
better  tenants.  I  admire  their  womanly  indepen- 
dence, and  give  them  due  credit  for  many  redeem- 
ing qualities.  My  daughter,  never  condemn  a  per- 
son's eccentricities  until  you  have  heard  the  story  of 
his  life." 

I  felt  that  I  merited  the  rebuke,  and  did  not  know 
before  that  these  sisters  held  so  high  a  place  in  my 
father's  esteem  ;  he  had  just  finished  when  Annie 
Glyde  entered  the  room. 

"  Ah,  ha  !  Here  is  a  maiden  that  believes  in  true 
love,  I'll  warrant  you,  Mattie.  "Whose  horse  was 
that  I  heard  flying  over  the  gravel  just  now  ?  Eh, 
my  lady  ?" 

I  noticed  that  Annie  Glyde  did  not  blush,  as 
usual,  at  such  an  allusion;  she  looked  pale  and  sad, 
and  her  eyes  had  that  brimful,  tearful  expression 
that  they  had  never,  worn  of  late.  My  father  no- 
ticed it,  for  he  said,  apologetically : 


78  THE   SWEEZEY  SISTERS. 

"  Pshaw  !  What  foolish  creatures  you  girls  are  ;  I 
was  only  joking." 

He  kissed  both  of  us  (I  think  Annie  Glyde  was 
very  nearly  a  daughter  in  his  affection),  and  went 
to  his  rest,  leaving  us  alone  together. 


79 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Annie  Glyde's  Trouble — The  Somnambulist, 

The  echo  of  my  father's  retreating  footsteps  had 
scarcely  died  away  in  the  hall  before  the  pent-up 
tears  came  slowly  dropping  one  by  one  down  the 
cheeks  of  my  sweet  Annie  Glyde.  I  took  my 
father's  great  arm-chair  that  stood  before  the  grate, 
drew  her  down  to  me,  and  laying  her  head  on  my 
shoulder,  she  sobbed  like  a  very  child.  I  felt  inclined 
to  laugh  at  first,  for  I  divined  that  some  lover's 
quarrel  was  the  cause  of  her  sorrow ;  but  after  a 
moment's  silence  she  lifted  her  face  from  my  shoulder 
with  such  a  grave  expression  that  I  could  not  but 
sympathize  with  the  mute  appeal. 

"  What  has  that  great  boor.  Captain  Courtenay, 
been  saying  or  doing  to  you  now  ?  I  am  half  in- 
clined to  send  him  away  for  ever,  he  seems  to  render 
you  so  unhappy." 

"  He  has  gone  for  ever  now  ;"  and  again  the  tears 
leaked  out  on  the  long-fringed  lashes. 

"  Why,  you  did  not  give  him  his  walking  papers, 
did  you,  my  courageous  little  lady  ?  Hurrah  for 
so  much  spirit  in  your  little  breast." 

"  Yes  I  did,  too,"  said  she,  poutingly ;  "  and  I 


80 

don't  think  he  loves  me  either.  Mattie,  what  do 
gentlemen  do  and  say  when  they  love  you  ?" 

Her  face  assumed  an  odd  and  comic  expression  of 
gravity  as  she  asked  the  latter  question. 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  No  one  has  ever  had  the 
misfortune  to  fall  in  love  with  me  yet." 

*'  Yes,  they  have,  too.  There's  that  odd  English- 
man, Jamieson,  would  cut  his  hand  off  to  get  a  lock 
of  your  hair;  and  Dr.  Thornton,  and  that  funny  old 
Deacon  Mudge,  I  believe,  love  you  to  distraction. 
But  you  seem  to  know  everything  by  intuition  ; 
you  can  imagine  what  a  man  would  or  should  say 
and  do  if  he  loves  a  woman." 

''  Well,  if  I  were  a  man  and  loved  you,  mon  ange^ 
I  would  send  you  a  bouquet  of  mignonette,  violets, 
lilies  of  the  valley,  or  heliotrope  every  morning ;  a 
bundle  of  1)071-1)0718  at  noon,  a  hillet-doux  filled  with 
my  own  poetry,  with  your  name  chiming  and  jin- 
gling in  every  other  line  ;  or  Tennyson  or  M(^ore 
about  four  in  the  afternoon,  and  bring  myself  array- 
ed most  fastidiously  in  the  evening.  Kow,  would 
that  not   win   your  dear   little   bird-heart?" 

She  smiled  as  she  said  : 

"  I  know  that  I  could  fancy  such  a  lover ;  but 
what  do  you  think  Courtenay  said  to-night?  I  haven't 
told  you  yet.  He  told  me  that  he  loved  me  as  deep 
as  the  ocean  or  as  warm  as  the  sun  ;  at  any  rate, 
whatever  he  said,  it  meant  that  he  loved  me  very 
dearly,  and  he  asked  me  to  be  his  wife  ;  but  after  I 


ANNIE   GLYDE's  TEOUBLE.  81 

had  made  the  confession  that  I  loved. him  and 
promised  to  be  his,  the  ungrateful  fellow  refused 
point  blank  to  come  and  take  us  on  our  ride  to 
Hopkins's  Mills.  I  repented  having  revealed  myself 
so  soon.  I  want  to  go  fishing  so  badly.  Isn't  it 
provoking  in  him  ?  I  told  him  that  I  took  it  all  back  ; 
that  I  didn't  love  him  a  single  bit,  and  that  he  might 
stay  away  for  ever,  and  I  wouldn't  kiss  him  good- 
night, either." 

''  And  what  did  the  lover  say  ?" 

"  Why  he  laughed  at  me  as  you  would  at  a  child 
or  the  antics  of  a  kitten — I  wonder  if  he  thinks  me 
only  a  baby — and  got  on  his  horse,  riding  away  with- 
out even  stopping  to  ask  me  to  forgive  him  and  beg 
for  a  kiss  the  second  time." 

I  was  relieved  at  this  revelation  of  the  cause  of 
her  child-like  sorrow,  and  although  I  was  inwardly 
laughing  at  her  as  heartily  as  her  lover,  I  pitied  her, 
for  I  knew  that  her  little  innocent  heart  was  aching. 
I  said  : 

"  I  can  tell  you  why  he  laughed.  Had  you  not 
just  promised  to  be  his  wife,  and  if  this  would  not 
make  him  happy  enough  to  give  vent  to  it  in  laugh- 
ter or  some  other  pleasant  expression,  he  is  not  worthy 
of  my  little  Annie  Glyde.  And  as  for  the  kissing 
business,  he  need  not  care  for  the  loss  of  one  ;  is  he 
not  soon  to  have  you  for  his  altogether  ?  Ah,  me  ! 
you  will  soon  be  Glyde-ing  out  of  my  hands  into 
his." 

4* 


82 

Tliis  miserable  pun  on  her  name  had  the  desired 
effect,  and  my  heart-broken  maiden  of  a  moment 
aoro  burst  out  into  uncontrollable  lauf^hter  that  ranor 
merry  as  a  marriage  bell.  A  moment  after,  Mrs. 
Whipple  came  in  with  lights,  humming  in  her  sub- 
dued manner  one  of  Watts's  Ilynins,  and  we  retired 
for  the  night.  Annie  Glyde  and  I  did  not  sleep  in 
the  same  apartment.  I  always  had  a  fancy  for 
sleeping  entirely  alone,  no  matter  how  dearly  I  may 
have  loved  and  respected  a  friend.  I  could  never 
expose  the  hallowed  secrets  of  my  closet  to  their 
scrutiny.  Annie  Glyde's  chamber  was  next  to  my 
father's,  and  on  the  first  floor  in  the  extreme  east- 
end  of  the  mansion.  Mine  was  on  the  second  floor, 
and  a  broad  flight  of  stairs  led  from  the  hall  directly 
to  the  door.  On  this  particular  evening  I  went  into 
Annie's  room  and  left  her  in  her  usual  good  flow  of 
spirits  before  I  retired.  Somehow  I  could  not  sleep. 
I  thought  of  anything  and  everything.  Things  that 
my  mind  had  never  entertained  now  crowded  upon 
it  in  throngs.  I  thought  of  the  lonely  old  man — old 
Christopher — in  the  tenant-house  with  the  haunted 
graveyard  near ;  the  young  stranger  in  the  old 
house  at  the  Pines  and  his  odd  opinions.  The 
hours  were  wearing  into  midnight  and  my  eyes  not 
yet  closed  ;  I  lay  gazing  into  the  vacant  darkness, 
my  thoughts  drifting  between  Annie  Glyde  and  her 
lover.  Then  the  stranger  at  the  old  house — in  the 
warmth  of  conversation  my  father  had  forgotten  to 


ANNIE  GLYDE's  TROUBLE.  83 

mention  his  name,  and  I  had  neglected  to  renew  the 
question.  I  must  have  remained  a  long  time  thus, 
for  I  was  lingering  on  the  confines  of  dreamy  obli- 
vion, almost  lulled  to  forgetfulness,  when  I  heard — 
what? 

It  wakened  me  in  an  instant,  and  intensely  I 
listened  to  the  soft  and  regular  footfalls  of  some  one 
in  the  long  entry  below.  As  distinct  as  the  click  of 
the  old  clock  in  the  hall,  they  fell  as  if  muffled,  and 
now,  oh,  horror !  one  by  one  they  ascended  the  stairs 
that  led  to  my  room  door.  I  strove  to  close  my  eyes, 
but  the  lids  would  not  veil  them.  I  made  an  efibrt  to 
rise,  but  my  pulse  had  almost  ceased  its  beating  and 
a  cold  s-weat  stood  upon  my  brow.  I  remember  only 
once  to  have  felt  the  same  sensation,  and  that  once 
"was  when  I  came  so  suddenly  upon  John  Day  in  the 
gAiveyard  in  my  girlhood. 

I  would  have  called  for  some  one,  but  a  gurgling 
sound  was  all  I  could  make,  and  yet  the  steps  grew 
nearer,  until  now  they  approached  my  threshold. 
It  seemed  as  it  all  animation  had  forsaken  me  when 
the  sharp,  quick  click  of  the  latch  fell  upon  my  ear, 
and  a  figure  draped  in  white  stood  in  the  door- 
way. Oh,  heaven  !  had  it  rested  there ;  but,  gliding 
towards  my  bedside  with  that  regular  stealth-like 
tread,  my  breathing  grew  shorter  and  quicker,  until 
horror  seemed  to  have  benumbed  my  faculties  and 
weakened  me  with  its  intensity.  "With  outstretched 
arm  it  came,  and,  immovable  as  stone,  I  waited  and 


84 

watched  the  result.  Gliding  in  a  direct  line  to  my 
bedside,  the  elevated  hand  fell  upon  my  brow,  and 
its  very  warmth,  if  possible,  chilled  me  with  a  more 
superlative  terror.  The  hand  could  not  have  remain- 
ed more  than  a  few  seconds,  but  it  seemed  hours  to 
me,  wherfit  was  withdrawn,  and  the  figure  glided 
more  rapidly  away,  wilh  the  same  regular  step, 
Jatching  the  door  behind  it.  My  nerves  relax- 
ed, and,  overcome  with  excitement  and  horror,  I 
fainted. 

I  know  not  how  long  this  dreamy  stupor  succeed- 
ed, but  I  was  awakened  by  Mrs.  "Whipple's  enter- 
ing the  room  with  light  in  hand  and  too  much 
frightened  to  speak  for  a  moment,  stating  that  she 
was  afraid  there  was  some  one  in  the  liouse  ;  she 
had  heard  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  she  thought.  I 
said  nothing  of  my  thoughts,  but  I  determined  |o 
run  down  to  Annie  Glyde's  room,  for  I  now  felt  con- 
fident that  my  nocturnal  visitor  was  none  other  than 
herself.  Xow  that  my  reason  was  calmer,  I  remem- 
bered her  having  told  me  herself  of  a  somnam- 
bulistic tour  she  once  made  at  the  risk  of  her  life 
in  her  younger  years.  Taking  the  light,  I  asked 
Mrs.  Whipple  to  go  down  with  me.  We  entered  the 
room '^  together,  and  there,  in  her  night  clothing, 
before  her  mirror,  stood  xVnnie  Glyde,  apparently 
as  wide  awake  as  either  Mrs.  AYhipple  or  I.  But 
you  could  see  by  the  fixed  expression  of  the  eye^  the 
vacancy  of  the  blue  iris,  that  her  soul  was  not  in 


ANNIE   GLYDE'S  TROUBLE.  85 

them.  She  had  torn  a  bouquet  that  Captain  Oourte- 
nay  had  presented  to  her  entirely  apart,  and  was 
twining  a  wreath  for  her  hair.  She  combined  the 
flowers  as  tastefully  as  any  person  awake  and  in 
the  possession  of  every  faculty  would  have  done.  She 
made  no  mistakes,  but  finishing  it,  tried  its  effect  on 
her  brow,  hung  it  on  the  mirror-frame  as  if  satisfied, 
and  went  back  to  bed  again,  while  we  stood  by 
looking  on.  Mrs.  Whipple,  at  my  request,  promised 
to  keep  silence,  and  I  went  up  to  my  room  without 
awaking  her,  for  her  breathing  was  now  healthy  and 
regular  as  an  innocent  child's.  So  my  ghost,  sweet 
Annie  Glyde,  was  a  somnambulist, 

8 


86 


CHAPTER  Xm. 

Aunt  Dinah's  Fright — Old  Christopher. 

"When  I  acquainted  Annie  Glyde  with  her  noctur- 
nal visit  to  my  chamber,  she  could  remember  nothing 
about  the  matter  until  I  showed  her  the  wreath. 
She  had  had  a  dream,  but  so  indistinct  and  unreal 
that  her  memory  could  revive  nothing  tangible. 

"  But,  Mattie,  don't  tell  him;  he  might  think  me 
so  ridiculous." 

"  Why  should  I  tell  any  one,  child  ?"  She  seemed 
so  like  an  innocent,  pretty  child  in  her  blushing 
beauty,  that  I  could  not  help  bestowing  the  title  upon 
her.  "  But,  my  little  lady,  perhaps  I  shall  not  have 
the  opportunity,  as  you  have  banished  him  from  the 
house,  you  know.  Goethe  speaks  of  an  evil  dis- 
position of  mind  which  often  misleads  us  so  far  as  to 
make  us  find  a  pleasure  in  tormenting  those  whom 
we  love." 

It  was  assuredly  unkind  in  me  to  make  this  light 
remark  in  allusion  to  her  last  night's  distress,  and 
she  rebuked  it  with  a  look  of  silent  reproach  that  I 
felt  to  my  heart's  core.  A  child  in  many  things,  she 
was  a  woman  in  some. 


AUNT  DINAH'S  FRIGHT.  87 

About  this  time  strange  stories  were  again  afloat 
about  a  supernatural  visitor  that  had  been  seen  in 
the  graveyard  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  I  seldom 
visited  the  lonely  grave  I  had  cared  for  so  scrupu- 
lously in  childhood.  I  had  only  been  there  once  since 
my  return  from  Hoylestown,  and  then  I  found  that 
the  careful  hand  of  John  Day  had  kept  it  green,  and 
it  was  the  only  solitary  unsunken  mound  in  the  midst 
of  the  numbers  that  surrounded  it.  I  had  never 
seen  the  strange  old  man  who  dwelt  in  the  tenement 
house,  which  was  situated  about  a  hundred  paces 
further  along,  standing  back  a  considerable  distance 
from  the  road.  The  stories  detailed  to  me  by  Mrs. 
Whipple,  in  her  letter  to  me  at  Mrs.  Osgood's,  had 
never  been  revived  since  my  return,  until  I  remem- 
ber *now  that  one  evening,  about  nine  o'clock,  we 
were  gathered  in  the  sitting-room — father,  Annie 
Glyde,  Mrs.  Whipple,  and  I — when  Aunt  Dinah 
burst  suddenly  into  the  room,  her  turban  conside- 
rably deranged,  and  so  much  consternation  depicted 
in  her  countenance  that  we  involuntarily  exclaimed 
in  concert : 

"Why,  Dinah,  what  upon  earth  is  the  matter?" 

She  opened  her  great  black  eyes,  displayed  her 
teeth,  and  I  believe  she  actually  looked  a  shade 
paler  with  fright  in  spite  of  her  dusky  complexion, 
as  she  said  in  a  low,*  suppressed  tone  : 

"  I've  seed  it !  I've  seed  it !" 

Mrs.  Whipple's  knitting  fell  spasmodically  from 


88  AUNT  Dinah's  frigut. 

her  hands  at  this  announcement,  and  the  next  day 
was  resonant  with  her  hymn  tunes. 

"Seen  what,  Aunt  Dinah?"  asked  my  fatlier, 
laughing  heartily,  wliile  the  poor  affirighted  negress 
trembled  like  a  leaf. 

"  De  ghost,  sir,  in  de  graveyard.  I  was  a  com  in' 
from  de  village,  sir,  and  I  hurried  all  of  de  way  'till 
I  got  to  the  foot  oh  de  hill,  when  I  'gan  to  'member 
de  strange  stories  of  its  bein'  haunted,  sir.  My  heart 
was  in  my  throat,  but  I  said  to  myself:  '  Now, 
Dinah,  whar's  de  use  bein'skeery  ;  dere's  no  sperrits 
gwain'  to  harm  an  ole  nigger-wench  like  you  is,'  and 
I  thought  I  wouldn't  look  dat  way.  But,  sir,  I 
couldn't  help  it  ;  my  eyes  didn't  mind  me  't  all.  I 
looked,  and  dar  in  the  light  of  de  moon  I  seed  it ;  a 
great  white  figur'  standing  among  de  graves." 

The  sweat  gathered  in  great  beads  on  her  brow,  her 
knees  clung  together,  and  she  bowed  down  with  fear, 
as  if  the  apparition  were  still  dwelling  in  her  mind's 
eye.  My  father  seemed  to  take  it  as  a  good  joke, 
and  laughed  more  heartily,  as  he  said  : 

"  Why  didn't  you  speak  to  it,  Dinah  ?  It  might 
have  told  you  whence  it  came  ;  though  after  all,  per- 
haps, it  was  only  one  of  my  white  heifers  standing 
there  in  the  woods." 

Dinah  was  somewhat  ruffled  at  this  scepticism. 

"  De  Lord  knows  I  seed  it  wid  my  own  eyes,' 
and  if  you'll  pay  me  what's  a  comin'  to  me,  sir,  I'll 
give  up  my  place.   It's  haunted,  sir  ;  I  knows  it  am,' 


89 

and  with  this  declaration  the  frightened  woman 
left  the  room.  I  remembered  my  fright  years  ago 
at  the  same  spot,  and  reasoned  with  myself.  I 
said : 

"  Perhaps  Dinah  has  seen  a  human  being  which 
would  not  require  much  color  of  imagination  to  trans- 
form into  a  ghost." 

I  would  have  thought  that  her  supposed  ghost  was 
a  grave-digger,  as  mine  proved  to  be,  had  I  not 
known  that  the  spot  was  so  covered  with  graves 
that  the  county  authorities  had  discontinued  inter- 
ments there  some  time  back. 

My  father  remarked  that  perhaps  old  Christopher, 
his  isolated  tenant,  would  know  something  of  the 
matter,  living  so  near  the  haunted  ground. 

"  He  is  to  be  one  of  our  dinner  party  to-morrow, 
and  we'll  ask  him.  Ha,  ha  !  what  a  joke  it  all  is  ; 
his  ghostship  will  be  paying  Oak  Side  a  visit  after  a 
little,  I  expect." 

But  that  dinner  party  came  and  brought  no  old 
man  with  it.  My  father  walked  down  to  the  little 
house  the  next  day.  On  his  return  I  inquired  why 
old  Christopher  had  not  come  as  per  invitation. 

^'  He  is  the  strangest  sort  of  man  I  ever  met,"  said 
my  father.  "  He  never  goes  out,  indeed  has  not 
been  over  a  hundred  yards  from  the  house  since  he 
came  there  ;  and  the  oddest  p*art  of  it  all  is,  he  has 
no  name,  or  at  least  gives  none  other  than  Chris- 
topher," 


90  AUNT   DINAU'S   FKIGHT. 

"  Can  you  imagine  why  he  observes  such  a  strict 
incognito  ?" 

"  I  cannot  ;  but  deeming  it  a  landlord's  duty  to 
know  something  of  the  character  of  his  tenants,  I 
once  asked  that  odd  servant  of  his,  Jacob,  what  had 
been  his  master's  early  history,  and  he  said :  '  My 
master,  sir,  like  all  men  in  this  world  of  sin  and 
sorrow,  has  suffered  some  grievous  misfortune  in 
the  flesh,  and  he  is  expiating  it  by  fasting  and  prayer 
in  a  good  Catholic  manner;  the  Blessed  Virgin  only 
knows  what  it  is,'  and  he  crossed  himself  devoutly, 
as  if  he  were  afraid  of  having  said  too  much." 

"  But,  father,  did  you  ask  him  about  this  super- 
natural visitor — whether  he  had  seen  any  strange 
thing  in  the  graveyard  or  not,  of  late  ?" 

*'  I  did  I  and  he  started  in  an  astonished  way  as 
I  asked  the  question  ;  stammering  out  that  he  had 
heard  nothing  of  it,  but  that  Jacob,  his  servant,  was 
always  trembling  with  the  fear  of  such  visitants, 
because  of  their  near  proximity  to  the  dead." 

Now  I  was  inclined  to  a  sense  of  the  supei-stitious 
myself  at  times,  but  never  when  free  from  the  in- 
fluences of  a  heated  imagination.  Reason  told  me 
that  Aunt  Dinah  had  seen  a  human  being,  and  that 
the  only  cause  for  all  the  prevalent  rumors  about 
the  Pines  being  haunted,  was  the  visit  of  some  poor 
heart-broken  mourner  to  the  grave  of  his  dead. 
Mrs.  Whipple  had  recovered  somewhat  from  her 
terror,  for  she  had  resumed  her  usual  visits  to  Beech- 


91 

dale  farm.  After  one  of  these  visits  to  the  Sweezey 
sisters,  one  daj,  she  said  to  me  : 

"  Speaking  of  old  Christopher,  Miss,  reminds  me 
of  a  circumstance  ;  I  saw  him  yesterday  in  the 
graveyard,  on  his  knees,  bending  over  a  grave,  mut- 
tering something  to  himself  that  I  could  not  under- 
stand. I  was  sure  at  first  that  it  was  the  appari- 
tion." 

Now  Mrs.  Whipple  had  no  sooner  spoken  than  the 
truth  began  to  dawn  upon  my  mind.  I  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  I  could  perchance  solve  the  mystery, 
but  I  kept  my  thoughts  to  myself.  That  old  man 
was  not  kneeling  at  a  grave  without  a  cause.  If 
he  came  by  day,  he  was  likely  to  come  at  night 
also;  hence  the  wide  rumors.  Again  a  strange  ele- 
vation possessed  me,  a  sort  of  Nemesis-like  feeling 
that  I  cannot  define.  I  thought  of  Charlotte  Cley- 
tone  and  her  premature  death.  Was  I  to  visit  retri- 
bution on  her  destroyer  ?  Who  knows  but  Heaven 
is  making  me  an  instrument  for  its  appointed  end. 
I  had  heard  of  old  Christopher's  peculiarities,  his 
maniac  moods  of  grief  and  distress,  and,  like  an 
electric  flash,  something  told  me  as  distinctly  as  I 
could  have  read  it  on  an  open  page,  that  old  Chris- 
topher was  none  other  than  the  father  of  Charlotte 
Cleytone.  It  was  intuitive,  but  I  was  as  strongly 
impressed  of  its  truth  as  if  he  had  revealed  it  him- 
self. So  deeply  was  I  wrapped  in  the  trance  of  my 
strange  thoughts  and  surmises  for  several  days,  that 


92  AUNT   DINAH'S   FRIGHT. 

I  did  not  sleep  soundly  at  niglit ;  I  would  wake  up 
with  a  start,  and  the  vision  of  that  sweet,  pale  face  I 
had  seen  in  the  rude  coffin  would  appear  before 
me. 

I  determined,  if  possible,  to  encounter  the  old  man. 
I  visited  the  lonely  grave  several  times  with  the  hope 
of  meeting  him  there ;  but  many,  many  days  pass- 
ed away,  and  new  and  strange  emotions  filled  my 
heart  before  the  opportunity  olfered  itself;  and 
then,  oh  then,  how  different  were  the  feelings  that 
prompted  and  impelled  me  to  the  knowledge. 
What  a  sacrificial  altar  would  be  revealed  to  me 
when  the  slender  cord  should  be  cut  that  held  a  cur- 
tain between  Charlotte  Cleytone's  destroyer  and  my 
futurCc  Upon  what  slender  threads  do  life,  happi- 
ness, and  death  depend  !  What  a  sublime  arrange- 
ment of  Providence  it  is — this  veiling  out  the 
future  from  mortal  vision !  We  float  down  the 
river  of  life  as  quietly  and  peacefully  just  above 
the  falls,  as  we  did  when  all  was  security  and  calm. 
'No  rumble  of  thunder,  no  warning  flash  of  light- 
ning before  the  storm,  not  even  the  wind  murmurs 
it  amongst  the  leaves;  a  few  bubbles  on  the  placid 
surface,  and  our  barques  dash  over  the  rocky  preci- 
pice of  destiny  wuhout  any  premonitions— our  hopes 
shattered,  our  lives  wrecked  and  scattered  amid  the 
seething  waters  of  misfortune.  A  steamer  is  on  the 
great  ocean.  There  is  dancing  and  music  on  board, 
jest   and   laughter,  as  they  journey  along  on  the 


AUNT  Dinah's  fright.  93 

great  highway  of  nations  in  thoughtless  security  ; 
when  the  cry  of  fire  !  fire  !  breaks  on  the  startled 
ear.  "Without  any  warning,  the  great  avenger  meets 
them  face  to  face  and  eye  to  eye.  Just  so  in  life 
we  meet  with  consternation  the  revelations  of  the 
hidden  hand  that  is  moulding  out  our  destinies  be- 
hind the  cloud  of  Omnipotence, 


94  THIRTEEN   AT  TABLE. 


•CHAPTER  XIY. 

Thirteen  at  Table —  Who  came  to  my  Father's  Dinner-party, 

It  was  a  gala  daj  at  the  Pines.  My  father's  din- 
ner-party was  likely  to  prove  a  success.  It  was  an 
odd  coincidence  that  his  birthday  and  wedding  an- 
niversary should  occur  on  the  same  day.  Judging 
from  the  display  Dinah  had  made  of  her  talents  as 
a  cuisinier,  she  liad  entirely  forgotten,  or  at  least 
ignored,  the  threat  which  she  had  made,  to  pack 
up  bag  and  baggage  in  consequence  of  her  late 
fright. 

It  was  rather  an  incongruous  circle  grouped  about 
my  father's  dining-table.  First,  and  indeed  the 
most  distinguished  in  appearance  of  all  the  guests, 
were  the  Sweezey  sisters,  with  their  high-crowned 
caps  and  Quaker  garb,  "  that  eternal  drab,"  as 
usual,  seated  in  a  row  opposite  Doctors  Woodruff  and 
Thornton,  and  Mr.  Jamieson,  the  Englishman.  The 
remaining  ladies  of  the  party  were  a  Miss  Swanson, 
a  city  belle  on  a  visit  to  the  Courtenays,  Annie 
Glyde,  and  myself.  Mrs.  Whipple  presided  over  the 
tea-urn  at  a  side-table.  The  gentlemen  present,  not 
yet  named,  were  Captain  Courtenay,  Deacon  Mudge 
of  Haddonsfield,  and  my  father's  tenant  from  the  old 


THIRTEEN  AT  TABLE.  95 

house  at  the  Pines,  who  sat  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
table  opposite  to  my  father.  This  latter  gentleman, 
whom  I  then  met  face  to  face  for  the  first  time,  did 
not  strike  me  as  being  handsome.  There  was  a 
cold,  almost  repulsive  look  in  his  rather  melancholy 
eyes  ;  but  when  he  smiled,  the  sunshine  darted  into 
them  with  a  magic  swiftness  that  seemed  unaccount- 
able. He  was  seemingly  one  of  those  deep,  thought- 
ful sort  of  men  that  seldom  smile ;  but  when  any- 
thing worthy  of  mirth  touches  the  riglit  chord,  tlie 
imprisoned  sunlight  breaks  out  like  music  at  night, 
all  the  sweeter  for  having  its  origin  in  the  obscurity 
of  darkness. 

My  father  had  called  him  eccentric,  and  I  think 
he  was  sufficiently  outr^  to  warrant  such  an  asser- 
tion. There  was  not  a  fashionable  garment  in  his 
whole  attire,  and  yet  there  was  taste  displayed  in 
even  the  tie  of  his  cravat.  Let  me  see  a  man's  cra- 
vat and  the  part  in  his  hair,  and  I  can  read  a  volume 
of  character.  There  was  an  abandon,  a  careless 
grace  about  him,  that  betokened  much  of  his  charac- 
teristics. 

In  conversation  he  was  a  soul  separate  and  dis- 
tinct from  a  body — he  went  out  of  himself  entirely 
and  seemed  to  forget  his  personality.  It  was  not 
here  I  learned  that  this  great  gift  was  his.  I  should 
not  have  recognised  in  the  dignified,  quiet  gentle- 
man before  me,  the  drenched  cavalier  that  I  had 
seen  at  my  father's  door ;  and  I  was  somewhat  star- 


96  THIRTEEN  AT  TABLE. 

tied  when  my  father  introduced  ns  in  his  rather 
abrupt  manner : 

"  Guilderstring,"  said  he,  "  this  is  my  daughter, 
Martha." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  pecnliar  emotions  that 
filled  me  on  our  first  meeting.  He  stood,  however, 
not  at  all  abashed,  as  if  undecided  whether  to  take 
my  hand  or  not.  Seeing  this,  I  extended  it,  and  we 
were  acquainted,  for  he  took  it  into  his  with  a  soft, 
firm  pressure,  smiling  in  his  peculiar  way  as  he 
said: 

"  1  am  glad  to  meet  the  daughter  of  so  worthy  a 
father." 

I  do  not  remember  what  followed,  but  he  kept 
near  me,  and  in  the  course  of  conversation  we  stum- 
bled upon  the  subject  of  poetry.  I  remember  the 
first  sentence  he  uttered  as  we  entered  the  dining- 
room. 

"  And  there  is  poor,  pitiable,  crazy  Cowper,  you 
cannot  assuredly  accuse  him  of  demeaning  his  gift 
in  prating  about  love  sick  swains  and  lasses.  Miss 
Klopenstene  ?" 

"  No,  sir  ;  at  the  risk  of  being  thought  by  you  a 
hypochondriac,  I  must  say  the  poetry  of  Cowper 
gives  me,  at  least,  more  pleasure  as  a  reader,  and 
exalts  the  dignity  of  poetry  more  in  my  estimation 
than  either  Byron  or  Shakspeare  ;  both  the  latter 
pander  their  noble  talents  to  the  gratification  of  a 
sensual  mind  rather  than  an  exalted  morality." 


THIRTEEN  AT  TABLE.  97 

"Then  you  would  condemn  my  idolized  Tom 
Moore  in  your  category.     I  know  you  would." 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  I  think  the  poetry  of  Thomas  Moore, 
with  some  general  exceptions,  not  only  pernicious 
but  in  some  instances  actually  shocking  to  the  ear 
of  a  sensitive  and  pure  imagination." 

"  May  I  ask  who  is  the  favored  poet  that  occupies 
the  exalted  ideal  of  your  mind  ?" 

"  That,  sir,  is  a  question  not  easily  answered.  I 
find' it  a  difficult  matter  to  give  the  laurel  of  poetic 
perfection  to  any  individual  poet.  The  poets  of 
the  Bible  come  nearest  the  divine  perfection.  But 
when  I  look  about  me  in  our  modern  arena  at  the 
sweet  singers  of  our  own  land,  my  eye  singles  out 
Bryant,  with  his  great,  sublime  Thanatopsis  ;  Whit- 
tier's  eternal  symphony  of  universal  freedom ;  Long- 
fellow's music,  like  silver  tinkling  bells ;  and  in  the 
maze  of  competitors  I  am  bewildered.  They  all 
have  a  share  in  my  estimation.  There  is  yet  one 
other,  though  not  ours  by  nationality,  yet  assuredly 
so  by  language — a  sister  by  adoption— the  sweet, 
angelic  rhythmist,  Mrs*  Browning,  a  woman  worthy 
of  immortality." 

I  do  not  know  why  I  spoke  so  warmly,  but  this 
man  possessed  a  power  of  drawing  me  out  of  my- 
self that  was  remarkable.  I  was  somewhat  surprised, 
however,  at  his  answer. 

"I  have  not  studied  the  poetry  of  the  Bible 
closely  ;  it  is  a  book  whose  apparent  inconsistencies 

6 


98  THIRTEEN  AT  TABLE. 

and  contradictions  have  kept  me  from  it,  and  yet  it 
may  be  because  I  am  not  a  Christian  tliat  I  cannot 
reconcile  them.  I  judge  that  you  are  a  member  of 
the  church,  Miss  Klopenstene." 

"  I  am  not  a  member  of  the  church  ;  why  did 
you  think  so  ?" 

"  You  are  not  ?  Your  conversation  led  me  to 
infer  as  much  ;  only  Christians,  I  am  told,  read  the 
Bible."  He  said  the  last  words  \vith  much  irony  in 
his  tone. 

•'  Can  one  not  be  a  Cliristian  and  yet  not  be  a 
member  of  the  visible  church,  Mr.  Guilderstring?" 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  answer  you.  I  am  not 
a  theologian.  Indeed  your  conversation  perplexes 
me,^' 

He  was  silent  and  moody,  and,  I  thouglit,  for  a 
moment  abstracted  more  than  the  occasion  war- 
ranted. 

^'Perhaps  I  have* expressed  myself  too  freely  to 
one  who  is  comparatively  a  stranger.  Pardon  me, 
Mr.  Guilderstring." 

I  felt  not  a  little  wounded  at  the  abrupt  manner  in 
which  he  broke  the  thread  of  our  discourse,  and  there 
was  perhaps  a  shade  of  anger  in  my  ton  e,  for  he  seemed 
to  start  out  of  his  fit  of  revery  at  the  sound  of  my  voice. 

"  Did  I  wound  you,  Miss  Klopenstene  ?  If  so,  for- 
give me;  it  was  not  intentional.  I  was  thinking  of 
my  mother ;  she  once  used  a  similar  expression." 

"  You  did  not  wound  me,  sir  ;  why  do  you  ask  ?" 


THIRTEEN  AT   TABLE.  99 

''  Has  a  gentleman  not  a  right  to  know  why  a  lady 
appears  irritated  in  his  presence  ?" 

"  Did  I  appear  so  ?"  I  asked,  blushing  a  good  deal, 
I  guess,  at  my  subterfuge,  for  I  felt  the  hot  blood 
rush  into  my  cheeks,  and  I  know  something  flashed 
out  of  my  eyes,  for  he  smiled  as  he  said  : 

"  You  do  indeed  appear  so  just  now." 

"You  are  skilled  in  reading  the  emotions  that 
sway  others,  sir,"  said  I,  coldly. 

"I  am  not;  but  come,  now,  be  frank  with  me; 
acknowledge  it,  you  were  provoked  with  me."  He 
smiled  so  good-naturedly  that  I  was  forced  to  con- 
fess to  myself  how  childish  I  must  appear  in  his  eyes. 
^  "I  was  piqued  at  your  manner  a  moment  ago, 
sir.     It  is  over  now." 

This  was  rather  a  hurried  conversation,  but  it 
made  an  impression  on  me  that  was  never  eifaced. 
It  proved  to  me  that  John  Guilderstring's  eccen- 
tricities, if  such  they  were,  arose  from  causes  that 
he  could  not  control. 

We  were  seated  at  table  ;  Miss  Swanson  was  on 
his  right  and  I  on  his  left.  "We  were  silent  a  moment, 
when  Miss  Swanson  said  : 

"  Mr.  Jamieson  is  discussing  the  merits  of  cabbage 
as  an  edible.   Mr.  Guilderstring,  what  is  your  opinion 
^of   cabbage  and  cabbage-heads  in  general?" 

She  laughed  immoderately  as  she  glanced  over  to- 
wards Mr.  Jamieson,  who  was  so  busy  discussing  that 
vegetable  that  he  failed  to  notice  her  remark.     Miss 


100  THIRTEEN   AT   TABLE. 

Swanson  was  a  pretty  yonng  lady,  a  city  belle,  and 
a  flirt;  but  John  Guilderstring  did  not  seem  to 
relish  her  remark,  for  he  turned  and  addressed  me 
in  rej^ard  to  somethinor  totally  foreio^n  to  it. 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Mr.  Jamieson,  "  I  think  it  a 
plebeian  dish,  and  no  Englishman  of  good  taste 
would  indulge  in  it  at  any  time." 

This'  was  an  unhappy  remark ;  for  the  Sweezey 
sisters,  who  were  countrywomen  of  his,  had  helped 
themselves  plentifully  to  the  slaugh,  and  there  were 
bountiful  remnants  still  remaining  on  their  plates. 
Now,  if  there  was  anything  that  would  ruffle  the 
dignity  of  Jemima  Sweezey,  who  was  always  spokes- 
man for  the  three,  it  was  the  idea  of  being  termed 
plebeian.  She  knew  that  she  was  sprung  from  the 
English  peasantry ;  but  she  was  now  an  American 
woman  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  and  the  blood 
sprang  up  into  her  forehead  as  she  looked  at  the 
insolent  puppy  "who  was  always  prating  about  his 
birth,  which,  unhappily,  endowed  him  with  few 
brains. 

Straightening  her  cap-crown  until  it  seemed  to 
tower  in  proud  independence  above  her  head, she 
said  : 

"  Henry  Augustus  Jamieson  (I  do  not  know  how 
she  learned  his  full  name,  for  I  had  never  heard  it 
myself  before  ;  and  often  has  it  been  a  matter  of 
wonder  to  me  how  these  women  learned  them  so 
soon ;  they  always  used  the  first  name),  thy  parents 


THIRTEEN  AT  TABLE.  101 

left  out  one  essential  when  tliey  reared  thee,  and 
that  was  good-breeding."  She  spoke  with  so  much 
womanly  dignity,  and  yet  so  sarcastically,  that 
Jamieson  fired  up  a  little  with  anger. 

"  One  might  think  you  lived  on  sourkraut  at 
Beechdale  from  the  expression  of  your  countenance, 
Miss  Sweezey ;"  and  Mr.  Jamieson  fell  to  twirling 
his  moustaches  with  all  the  complacency  of  a  saint. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  angry  flash  that  came  into 
John  Guilderstring's  eyes  at  this  ci'uel  remark.  My 
father,  seeing  the  turn  that  affairs  had  taken,  re- 
buked Mr.  Jamieson  : 

"  Cabbage  was  placed  on  my  board,  sir,  to  be 
eaten,  and  not  for  discussion.  I  am  sorry  that  you 
have  turned  my  dining-room  into  a  debating  arena. 
I  am  very  fond  of  the  dish  myself,  and  if  it  follows 
that  I  am  plebeian,  perhaps  one  of  noble  extraction 
may  prefer  retiring  from  my  plebeian  presence." 

Mr.  Jamieson  seemed  to  see  some  point  to  this 
remark,  for  he  was  sullen  and  silent  for  the  remain- 
der of  the  meal. 


102 


CHAPTEE  XY. 

Deacon  Mudge's  Superstition — John   Guilder  string^  s    Confession. 

*'  Thirteen  at  table  !"  exclaimed  Deacon  Mudge, 
as  he  cast  his  eyes  in  a  rotary  way  around  the  board. 
"  Alas  !  my  wife,  poor  Maria  !  died  just  two  months 
after  having  eaten  at  a  dinner  of  thirteen.  This  is 
how  it  came  about.  AVe  went  to  Squire  Jones's  one 
afternoon  to  a  huskin'  party,  and  somehow  poor 
dear  Maria  was  the  last  one  of  tlie  thirteen  to  come 
to  the  table ;  she  never  would  believe  me,  but  I 
knew  that  she  would  come  to  her  latter  end  before 
the  year  was  out ;  and  sure  enough  she  took  sick  of 
the  fever  and  died.     Poor  Maria  !'' 

The  good  man  had  been  so  busily  engaged  with 
the  substantial  of  the  table  that  he  had  not  noticed 
the  circumstance  before,  and  his  knife  and  fork  fell 
with  a  click  on  his  plate  that  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  whole  company.  This  was  the  first  word  he 
had  spoken  since  the  meal  commenced,  and  from  his 
serious  manner  I  imagine  he  supposed  we  were  all 
to  look  at  it  in  the  same  light.  This  same  benevolent 
old  deacon  was  an  admixture  of  good  sense  and 
superstition  rarely  met  with  in  our  nineteenth  cen- 
tury.    I  think  he  was  of  Germanic  origin.     I  had 


103 

heard  him  tell  his  weird  wild  ghost  stories  in  my 
girlhood  until  my  blood  fairly  chilled  with  horror ; 
but  I  was  not  aware  of  any  superstitious  termination 
connected  with  a  dinner  of  thirteen. 

I  turned  to  Mr.  Guilderstring.  "  What  does  he 
mean  ?  What  is  the  fatality  attendant  on  such  a 
circumstance  ?     Do  you  know  ?" 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  and  when  the  attention 
of  the  guests  was  fixed  on  something  that  the  dea- 
con was  relating,  he  said  : 

"An  old  prejudice  still  exists  on  the  pretended 
danger  of  being  thirteen  at  table.  It  is  believed 
that  when  such  an  occurrence  takes  place,  one  at 
least  of  the  guests  present  will  die  within  a  year. 
It  is  a  v^ry  foolish  superstition,  however,  for  the 
chances  are,  and  in  fact  it  is  a  probability,  that  one 
at  least  out  of  the  thirteen  would  have  died  as  an 
average  in  the  course  of  nature.  Moore  mentions 
such  a  circumstance  as  qpcurring  one  day  at  Madame 
Catalan's,  when  a  French  Countess  was  sent  for  to 
remedy  the  grievance  ;  and  Rachel,  the  tragedienne^ 
also  gives  an  instance,  the  particulars  of  which  I 
have  forgotten." 

"  You  are  not  superstitious,  Mr.  Guilderstring  ?" 

"  I  am  not." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  don't  like  superstition  in  men." 

"  Do  you  admire  it  in  your  own  sex  V 


104  DEACON  MUDGE'S  SUPERSTITION. 

"  INTo ;  but  in  woman  it  is  more  excusable,  you 
know,  she  being  the  weaker  vessel.  By  the  way,  you 
ought  to  believe  in  ghosts,  for  we  have  had  a  real 
one  hereabouts  ;  it  is  supposed  to  haunt  that  little 
graveyard  near  the  old  tenement-house  occupied  by 
an  old  man  called  Christopher.  You  know  where 
the  lane  enters  the  high  road  from  the  Pines  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  that  is  the  spot ;"  and  I  related  Aunt 
Dinah's  story. 

"Now,  sir,  you  believe  it;  don't  you?"  said  I, 
laughing. 

"No." 

"  What  did  she  see,  then  ?" 

"  A  heifer,  perhaps,  as  your  father  suggested,  or 
some  laborer  resting  there  in  his  shirt-sleeves  ;  that 
is  all." 

"  I  wish  we  were  all  so  sceptical  as  you  are,  here  at 
Oak  Side.  I  don't  believe  such  stories,  but  yet  I  am 
sometimes  annoyed  by  them  ;  and  Mrs.  Whipple  is 
worse  than  I  am." 

"  Do  you  read  Shakspeare,  Miss  Klopenstene  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  but  little  ;  and  have  never  seen  a  thea- 
trical performance.     I  am  a  novice." 

"  You  have  read  Hamlet,  of  course  ?" 

"  Yes,  with  Annie  Glyde ;  she  assuming  the 
character  of  Ophelia." 

"  Do  you  not  think  the  ghost  a  very  strange  con- 
ception for  a  mind  like  Shakspeare's  ?" 


DEACON  MUDGE'S  SUPERSTITION.  105 

"I  believe  it  is,  but  I  never  thought  of  it 
before." 

"Has  it  never  struck  you  as  being  very  ludi- 
crous and  inconsistent  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"Well,  this  is  the  way  that  superstition  gains 
ground ;  it  is  through  the  medium  of  the  stage,  in  a 
great  measure,  that  it  fastens  its  fangs  unconsciously 
on  the  minds  of  men.  A  fable,  no  matter  how  in- 
consistent, emanating  from  so  great  a  mind,  will 
make  a  truthful  impression  on  most  men." 

My  father  arose  and  gave  the  signal  for  adjourn- 
ment. The  gentlemen  remained  loitering  over  their 
wine-,  and  Annie  Glyde  and  I  accompanied  the  ladies 
to  the  parlor.  At  the  request  of  sweet  Annie,  I  sat 
down  to  the  instrument  and  sang  a  little  ballad 
which  was  a  universal  favorite  at  Oak  Side.  I  had 
written  the  song  myself,  and  set  it  to  one  of  Mrs. 
Whipple's  tunes,  for  which  I  had  taken  a  fancy.  It 
was  one  of  those  old,  quaint,  sad,  melancholy  airs 
that  the  Methodist  choirs  sometimes  render  so  exqui- 
sitely. It  was  an  air  in  which  I  could  lose  myself 
altogether  and  sing  with  the  perfect  abandon  which 
I  gave  to  my  voice  when  a  child  and  a  wanderer 
amid  the  pines.  I  loved  to  sing  it.  It  seemed  to 
me  I  could  hear  the  wind-harp's  notes  as  they 
soughed  amongst  the  branches.  I  was  ecstatic.  I 
had  not  finished  the  last  verse,  beginning  : 
•6* 


106  DEACON  MUDGE's  SUPERSTITION. 

"My  mother,  too,  has  joined  the  throng, 
And  in  the  distance  dim 
I  hear  her  plaintive  cradle-song, 
And  catch  my  mother's  hymn," 

when  I  felt  a  shadow  fall  between  me  and  the  window. 
I  arose.  It  wasMr.  Guilderstring.  He  did  not  strive 
to  conceal  a  tear  that  sparkled  in  his  eye. 

^'  Yery  beautiful,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone.  I  was 
confused. 

"  Were  you  present  all  the  time  ?"  I  asked.  "  I 
thought  you  were  taking  wine  with  father.'' 

I  looked  around  the  room.  It  was  deserted.  Annie 
Glyde  had  gone  out  on  the  porch  with  Captain 
Cqiirtenay.  Miss  Swanson  I  saw  walking  in  the 
garden  with  Dr.  Woodruff,  whom  she  was  evidently 
striving  to  entangle  in  her  web.  The  Sweezey  sisters 
had  joined  my  father,  who  was  pointing  out -the 
peculiar  advantages  of  some  dwarf  pear-trees,  to 
their  evident  and  unconcealed  delight.  "We  were 
alone. 

"  Your  father  follows  the  American  custom,  Miss 
Klopenstene  ;  he  does  not  loiter  over  so  laborious  a 
task  as  we  are  apt  to  consider  eating.  You  spoke 
of  wine  ;  I  do  not  drink  wine." 

"  I  cannot  see  your  reason,  sir.  When  the  Creator 
had  fashioned  every  green  and  living  thing,  and 
looked  around  Him  pronouncing  all  very  good,  lie 
surely  took  no  exception  to  the  vine." 

"  Assuredly  not.     The  fruit  of  the  grape  in  itself 


107 

is  not  intoxicating ;  it  is  only  after  it  passes  tlirougli 
the  manipulations  of  human  agencies  that  .alcohol  is 
generated  in  the  juice  and  it  becomes  a  curse  to 
Christendom." 

"  If  you  use  the  term  Christendom  in  its  generic 
sense,  in  calling  it  a  curse  to  the  Christian  com- 
munity, you  must  remember  the  Christian  supper  at 
which  our  Lord  took  the  wine  and  blessed  it,  par- 
taking of  it  with  His  disciples  ;  and  on  another 
occasion,  at  the  marriage  feast,  when  He  turned  the 
water  into  wine  by  a  miracle." 

"  True  ;  but  there'are  circumstances  where  total 
abstinence  from  wine-bibbing  is  as  much  a  necessity 
as  the  avoidance  of  deadliest  poison.  For  me  to 
remain  at  the  table  where  wine  is  distributed  would 
be  as  foolhardy  as  for  me  to  sit  for  hours  under  the 
branches  of  the  upas  tree,  or  the  deadly  nightshade." 

''  You  must  have  had  some  evil  experience  then, 
sir." 

"  I  have,  indeed,  Miss  Klopenstene ;  and  your  good 
sense  will  not  condemn "TQie  when  I  acknowledge  it 
has  led  me  to  commit  follies  in  my  earlier  manhood 
that  a  lifetime  of  abstinence  can  never  blot  out.  I 
feel  that  I  but  do  you  justice  when  I  tell  you  that 
the  man  before  you  has  been  carried  away  from  the 
bowl  beastly  intoxicated,  and  never  awoke  from  his 
maudlin  reveries  but  the  feverish  thirst  again  seized 
him,  and  he  plunged  into  the  same  excess  from  which 
his  fortitude  could  not  shield  him." 


108  DEACON  MUDGE's  SUPERSTITION. 

"  You  do  yourself  injustice,  sir ;  you  are  surely  a 
rigid  conformist." 
-     "  I  am  weak,  Miss  Ivlopenstene." 

"You  give  me  an  impression  of  a  man  that  could 
conquer  himself  readily." 

"  It  is  a  mistake  ;  a  sad,  sad  mistake.  Oh  !  could  I 
but  recall  the  past  and  unravel  the  dark  threads  that 
are  already  woven  into  the  loom  of  that  stern  weaver 
we  call  Fate.  O  God !  and  must  I  suffer  a  lifetime 
of  misery,  because  of  one  evil  committed  in  a 
thoughtless  moment !" 

He  spoke  as  if  soliloquizing,  and  a  painful  expres- 
sion shot  into  his  eyes  as  he  sat  still,  and  appa- 
rently in  retrospective  thought.  Why  does  he  tell 
me  this  ?  I  queried  to  myself,  and  as  I  looked  at 
the  firm  lines  drawn  about  his  mouth,  the  close  com- 
pression of  his  lips,  the  veined  forehead,  the  force 
of  character  expressed  in  his  countenance,  I  grew 
perplexed. 

Here  was  a  mystery  I  could  not  fathom.  Pliysi- 
cally  lie  appeared  to  me  strong,  but,  by  his  own 
acknowledgment,  morally  he  was  weak.  His  eye- 
lids lighted  up  with  a  grandeur  of  expression  as  he 
went  on  : 

"  Early  education  has  much  to  do  with  the  for- 
mation of  our  characters,  Miss  Klopenstene.  The 
parents  of  youth  give  them  the  compass  that  guides 
to  an  exalted  and  true  maturity.  My  early  train- 
ing was  defective.     I   cannot   picture  to  you  the 


DEACON  MUDGE's  SUPEKSTITION.  109 

evils  I  wrought  in  my  early  manhood.  I  brought  a 
fond  and  indulgent  mother  in  early  grey  hairs  to  the 
grave,  and  was  banished  from  my  father's  house 
because  of  an  indiscretion  that  brought  disgrace  to 
the  family  name.  Can  you  pity  one  who  has  been 
so  utterly  lost  to  virtue,  to  all  that  is  high,  good,  and 
noble?     Can  you  pity  him.  Miss  Klopenstene." 

He  bowed  his  head  on  his  hand.  I  was  not  pre- 
pared for  such  a  revelation.  It  seemed  to  me  hideous, 
monstrous ;  I  recoiled  from  his  presence.  He  seemed 
to  notice  it;  he  read  my  thoughts,  for  he  said 
directly : 

"  You,  too,  then,  would  shun  me.  Was  I  not  frank 
with  yon  ?  I  might  have  said  nothing,  and  you  would 
at  least  have  respected  me." 

"  Mr.  Guilderstring,  I  entertain  as  much  respect 
for  you  as  formerly,  but  this  strange  conversation 
makes  me  tremble  ;  it  frightens  me." 

I  feared  the  man  who  could  thus  sublimely  and 
openly  submit  his  past  life  to  the  inspection  of  a 
stranger — a  stranger  I  said ;  but  there  is  an  attrac- 
tion between  certain  men  and  women  when  they 
meet  for  the  first  time  that  disposes  of  all  the  con- 
ventional distances  that  society  fixes  between  them, 
and  they  are  acquainted.  It  was  so  with  John 
Guilderstring  and  me.  He  seemed  to  me  more  like  a 
long-lost  brother  whom  I  had  just  found  amongst 
men.  I  turned  from  him  and  looked  out  across  the 
Pines  to  the  glittering  spires  of  the  distant  city,  and 


110 

tlioiiglit  of  tlie  great  New  Jerusalem,  with  its  spires 
of  burnished  gold  eternal  in  the  heavens,  whose 
glorious  gates  I  could  not  see,  and  my  trembling 
heart  grew  calmer  as  John  Guilderstring  went  on  to 
tell  me  about  his  past — his  blank  and  dreary  past. 

So  we  lingered  in  the  summer  afternoon  by  the 
open  window,  and  as  I  looked  out  through  the  case- 
ment, getting  a  glimpse  of  the  landscape,  with  its 
varied  sunshine  and  shadow,  so  he  raised  the  curtain 
from  his  life  and  I  caught  glimpses  of  light  and 
shade,  of  good  and  bad,  through  the  imperfect  win- 
dow of  human  language.  And  a  pity — a  strange,' 
deep  pity — brooded  in  my  heart  for  the  man  who 
sat  beside  me. 


THE  WAR  OF  SWEEZEY  VERSUS  JAMIESON.      Ill 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Tlie  War  of  Sweezey  versus  Jamieson — The  Incidents  of  an 
Afternoon. 

We  were  interrupted.  The  Sweezey  sisters  filed 
into  the  room  after  their  ancient  and  warlike  custom. 
It  was  a  peculiarity  of  these  ladies  to  keep  in  close 
proximity  to  each  other,  ever  ready  to  lend  assist- 
ance in  case  of  emergency ;  and  after  the  attack  of 
Jamieson  at  the  dinner-table  they  seemed  to  be 
steeling  themselves  for  a  combat,  and  Jamieson 
seemed  to  be  following  them  in  the  rear  for  the 
same  purpose.  1  dreaded  the  renewal  of  his  unmanly 
onslaught ;  but  he  soon  afterwards  came  over  to  the 
window  where  Mr.  Guilderstring  and  I  were  seated, 
and  glanced  over  towards  the  trio,  as  he  whispered  : 
"  The  three  Graces."  Now,  the  three  spinsters  had 
drawn  forth  their  knitting  from  the  unfathomable 
depths  of  three  green  baize  bags  that  were  always 
suspended  at  their  sides  when  visiting.  With  their 
nimble  fingers  in  rapid  motion  and  their  straight  prim 
faces  all  bent  at  about  the  same  angle,  they  cut  such 
a  ludicrous  figure  as  the  three  Graces  knitting,  that 
Mr.  Jamieson's  humorous  comparison  completely 
carried  me  away,  and  I  burst  out  into  laughter.     It 


112      THE  WAR  OF  SWEEZEY   VERSUS  JAMIESON". 

was  veiy  unladylike,  I  know  ;  but  in  spite  of  my 
being  a  heroine,  I  have  done  some  very  unladylike 
things.  Mr.  Guilderstring  looked  at  me,  but  did  not 
smile. 

''  Are  you  surprised  ?"  I  asked. 

*'  Not  at  you,  but  at  that  heartless  boor  that  would 
make  these,  no  doubt,  estimable  ladies  the  subject 
of  ridicule." 

"  I  did  Avrong  to  laugh." 

"  You  could  not  resist  it ;  therefore  you  committed 
no  offence." 

The  three  unconscious  subjects  of  his  ridicule 
soon  had  ample  revenge,  however,  on  the  author. 

Mr.  Jamieson  having  crossed  the  room  for  some 
purpose,  and  his  feet  becoming  entangled  in  Miss 
Jemima's  yarn,  she  gave  him  a  glance  of  supreme 
and  unbridled  contempt  as  she  tugged  away  at  the 
end  in  her  hands.  It  was  strong,  and  his  struggles 
for  freedom  only  got  him  deeper  into  the  entangle- 
ment, until,  unconsciously  treading  on  the  ball  itself, 
it.roUed  under  his  foot,  and  he  fell  in  no  very  grace- 
ful position  to  the  floor. 

MissSwanson,  father,  and  Deacon  Mudge  entered 
the  room  at  the  critical  moment,  and  a  roar  of 
laughter  followed  that  put  even  Mr.  Jamieson,  with 
his  cool  sangfroid^  to  the  blush. 

Deacon  Mudge  seemed  to  enjoy  it  excessively. 
After  having  exhausted  his  mirth,  he  said : 

"  A  very  humble  subject,  to  be  sure — Mr.  Jamieson 


THE  WAK  OF  SWEEZEY  VEKSUS  JAMIESON.      113 

at  the  feet  of  so  estimable  a  triune.  Is  he  suing  for 
pardon,  Miss  Jemima,  that  I  find  him  in  so  humble 
a  position  ?" 

"  Darn  the  old  woman's  yarn  !"  muttered  Jamie- 
son,  uttering  something  to  himself  unheard  by  ears 
polite. 

"  Don't  darn  the  yarn,  sir,  for  it  may  be  used  to 
darn  you  some  day,"  said  the  Deacon,  triumph- 
antly. 

Drs.  Thornton  and  Woodruff  had  evidently  never 
settled  that  old  dispute  which  did  not  terminate  at 
my  mother's  death.  They  were  rivals,  both  court- 
ing the  sickly  graces  of  the  same  community.  Dr. 
Woodruff  was  cool  and  collected,  as  a  physician 
always  should  be ;  Dr.  Thornton  was  feverish  and 
excited,  as  a  man  of  physic  never  should  be.  They 
had  been  arguing,  for  Dr.  Woodruff  said,  in  answer 
to  some  question  of  the  elder : 

"  The  eclectic  pursues,  after  all,  the  wisest  course 
of  physics ;  he  is  like  the  bee  extracting  honey 
from  every  plant,  whether  sweet  or  bitter." 

"  I  presume,  then,"  answered  Dr.  Thornton,  with 
some  acrimony,  "  to  carry  out  your  simile,  you  would 
liken  our  school  to  a  spider  that  extracts  nothing 
but  venom  from  the  same  plants.  But,  my  dear  sir, 
our  school  is  too  ancient  a  one  to  be  blown  about 
like  a  bubble  by  every  new-fangled  idea  that  arises. 
It  can  bear  to  be  scandalized." 

"  Some  of  the  greatest  of  falsehoods  are  the  old- 


11-i      THE   WAR   OF  SWEEZEY  VERSUS  JAMIESON. 

est,  and  the  dust  of  time  covers  up  a  multitude  of 
errors,"  answered  Woodruff,  calmly. 

I  know  not  to  what  extreme  the  men  of  physics 
would  have  carried  their  argument  had  not  Mr. 
Jamieson  suddenly  discovered  his  tongue.  I  knew 
that  he  was  preparing  to  assail  somebody,  for  that 
invariable  symptom  of  mental  uneasiness,  the  twirl- 
ing of  his  moustache,  was  a  sure  token  that  he  had 
discovered  an  idea.  He  said,  abruptly  addressing 
Dr.  Woodruff: 

"  Suppose  my  grandmother  were  to  indulge  in 
too  much  warm  bread,  and  dyspepsia  should  result 
therefrom,  would  the  administration  of  brond  pills 
insure  a  cure,  think  you?  Like  cures  like,  you 
know." 

"  There  are  exceptions  to  all  rules,"  said  Dr. 
Woodruff,  sarcastically.  "  We  might  as  well  attempt 
to  make  a  wise  man  of  a  fool  by  administering 
brains." 

Jamieson  left  the  field  with  some  chagrin  at 
this  retort,  and  he  was  so  quiet  and  docile  for  the 
remainder  of  the  afternoon,  that  no  one  was  further 
annoyed  by  his  unmeaning  remarks.  I  only  know 
that  the  conversation  was  participated  in  by  all 
present ;  and  in  its  varied  and  detached,  nature  as  it 
flew  from  lip  to  lip,  it  reminded  me  of  a  game  I 
have  seen,  where  a  ball  is  kept  constantly  in  motion 
by  the  players  casting  it  from  one  to  another  as 
rapidly  as  possible,  in  which  game  John  Guilder- 


THE   WAR  OF  SWEEZEY  VERSUS  JAMIESON.      115 

string  and  I  took  little  x^art.  I  asked  him  why  he 
did  not  do  so. 

"  The  charms  of  conversation  are  entirely  des- 
troyed for  me,"  he  answered,  "  when  a  promiscuous 
set  of  characters  are  around  me.  When  I  have  but 
one  other  besides  myself,  I  know  how  to  give  utter- 
ance and  not  wound,  to  speak  freel}"  and  meet  with 
no  rebuff.  If,  on  the  contrary,  a  man  utters  his 
sentiments  where  a  number  of  listeners  are  present, 
will  his  words  not  often  scathe  unintentionally,  pinch 
some  foot  whose  measure  he  had  not  taken,  wound 
some  heart  that  he  has.not  read,  make  some  unseen 
scar  smart  and  bleed  afresh  ?  I  never  feel  so  uncom- 
fortable as  when  asked  for  an  opinion  in  such  a 
company." 

I  remember  not  the  half  he  said  to  me  as  we  sat 
in  that  company,  and  yet  by  our  two  selves.  I  only 
know  that  the  afternoon  sun  withdrew  his  rays  from 
the  window,  the  shadow^s  lengthened  on  the  lawn  at 
Oak  Side,  and  the  bright  colors  of  the  carpet  grew 
sombre,  and  at  last  invisible,  as  the  twilight  deepened 
in  the  room ;  and  still  he  lingered,  while  I  was  not 
weary  of  listening.  I  remember  that  the  guests 
took  their  leave,  few  and  far  between,  iintil  only 
John  Guilderstring  and  I  sat  there  in  the  darkness 
alone. 

How  unspeakably  still  seemed  the  night — the 
wavering  of  leaves  in  the  garden,  the  cooing  of 
birds,  and  then  the  soft  and  distant  fall  of  the  star- 


116      THE   WAR  OF  SWEEZEY  VERSUS  JAMIESOX. 

light  as  the  eyes  of  lieaven  looked  in  upon  us.  He 
was  a  new  revelation  of  man  to  me  ;  and,  as  I  listened 
to  his  words,  my  heart  rose  up  and  said  unto  me : 
"  Eespect  him."  That  was  all.  Mrs.  Whipple  came 
in  with  lights.    lie  started  up  abruptly. 

"  I  must  go.     Good-night,  Miss  Klopenstene." 

I  gave  him  my  hand.  I  heard  him  talking  with 
my  father  a  few  moments  in  the  hall,  the  door 
closed,  and  I  watched  his  form  as  it  died  away  in 
the  blackness  of  the  night. 

"  A  fine  man,"  my  father  said,  as  he  entered. 

"  Certainly,  a  very  clever  man,"  I  answered. 
This  was  my  only  impression  ;  I  respected  him. 
That  was  all ;  and  I  think  any  sensible  woman  would 
have  expressed  the  same  opinion. 

Annie  Glyde  came  in  afterwards  with  the  sweet- 
est fuchsia  bloom 

"All  over  the  cheeks  of  the  prettiest  girl 
That  ever  imprisoned  a  roaming  curl." 

My  father  looked  up  from  his  paper. 

"  I  wonder  who^has  been  enticing  you  out  into  the 
night  air,  my  little  rose-bud.  "Why  your  cheeks  look 
like  poppies.  I  guess  Captain  Courtenay's  lips  were 
painted,  that  they  should  leave  so  much  color  be- 
hind them." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Klopenstene,  you  don't  suppose  that  I 
would  allow  a  gentleman  to  take  such  a  liberty,  do 
you?" 


THE  WAR  OF  SWEEZEY  VERSUS  JAMIESON.      117 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  my  dear  ;  I  once  took  such 
liberties  without  asking,  whether  it  was  allowed  or 
not ;  but  come,  the  darkness  tells  no  secrets,  and 
such  things  will  happen  in  the  time  of  courtship. 
Go,  get  the  cards,  and  you  and  I  will  have  a  game 
of  euchre,  while  Mattie  gives  us  some  music." 

This  was  my  father's  favorite  family  amusement, 
and  I  sometimes  thought  sweet  Annie  wearied  of 
the  game,  for  she  was  his  favorite  partner. 

She  smiled  as  she  said  :  "  Why  did  you  not  invite 
Mr.  what's  his  name  ?— Mr.  Goldenstring,  to  remain 
and  play  with  you?  I  know  he  would  have  cut 
off  his  finger  to  have  stayed.  Wouldn't  he.  Mat- 
tie  ?"  and  the  provoking  creature  looked  archly  up 
at  me. 

"I  did  extend  the  invitation,  but  Mr.  Guilder- 
string  does  not  play  cards  now ;  he  once  did,  he  tells 
me." 

"  What  an  odd  creature  he  is,  to  be  sure.  I  don't 
like  a  man  unless  he  can  sing,  dance,  play  cards  — " 

"  Stop,  Eosy  ;  don't  you  see  that  you  are  condemn- 
ing somebody  who  does  neither  dance  nor  sing,  and 
yet  one  whom  I  guess  you  love  a  little.  What  a  little 
paradox  it  is  !" 

Annie  Glyde  stammered  out  soiffething  as  she 
blushed  still  deeper  in  her  confusion,  and  the  game 
went  on. 

'•  Why  you  have  laid  a  left  bower  on  my  right, 
you  little  gipsy,  and  all  because  I  mentioned  the 


118      THE   WAR   OF   SWEEZEY    VERSUS  JAMIESON. 

name  of  Captain  Conrtenay ;''  and  my  father  seemed 
miicli  amused  as  he  watclied  her  clianging  moods. 
The  reader  must  not  expect  an  elaborate  descrip- 
tion of  the  many  characters  presented  in  the  last 
few  chapters  at  Oak  Side.  They  only  come  into  the 
book  and  are  connected  with  the  story  by  chance, 
and  claim  no  right  as  dramatis jpersonce.  These  latter 
I  have  endeavored  to  reduce  to  as  limited  a  number 
as  possible,  and  although  others  lived,  moved,  and 
had  their  being  on  the  scene  of  action,  I  have  con- 
lined  myself  strictly  to  the  few  who  had  an  influence 
directly  bearing  on  my  own  life  and  character. 


A  JEALOUS  LOVE.  119 


CHAPTER  XYII. 

A  Jealous  Love. 

Two  months  liad  rolled  away,  and  John  Guilder- 
string  had  become  a  universal  favorite  at  Oak  Side ; 
even  Mrs.  Whipple  liked  him,  and  often  came  sing- 
ing into  his  presence.  If  she  ever  rendered  Watts's 
Hymns  in  your  presence  it  was  a  token  of  regard 
that  few  were  favored  with.  John  Guilderstring 
was  welcomed  by  all  of  us — my  father  liked  him,  and 
Annie  Glyde  loved  to  poke  fun  at  him  in  her  childish 
way.  To  me  he  was  fast  becoming  a  friend  whose 
arrival  was  always  welcome,  and  whose  departure  I 
always  regretted.  Thus  things  stood  at  Oak  Side 
when  Annie  Glyde  came  to  me  one  morning. 

"  1  have  gained  my  point  at  last,"  she  said,  clapping 
her  fairy-like  hands  together.  "  I  am  to  go  to  Hop- 
kins's Mills  with  Harry,  and  you  and  Mr.  Goldenstring 
(she  never  called  him  anything  else  now),  I  suppose, 
are  to  go  with  us.  I  don't  mind  that  so  much  ;  but 
there  is  that  horrid  Miss  Swanson  ;  I  don't  like  her  ; 
I  really  almost  hate  her." 

This  was  a  strong  word  for  my  little  sister  Annie 
to  use,  and  she  stamped  her  tiny  foot  firmly  on  the 


120  A  JEALOUS  LOVE. 

floor  as  she  pronounced  it.  I  drew  her  down  to  me 
as  usual,  and  said  : 

"  Do  jou  know  why  you  don't  like  Miss  Swan- 
Bon  ?" 

"  Just  because  I  don't ;  that's  all." 

"  No,  that  is  not  all ;  although  it  is  truly  a  woman's 
reason.  My  little  sister  is  just  a  little  bit  jealous; 
not  too  much  so,  perhaps,  but  only  enough  to  make 
her  interesting." 

"Well,  haven't  I  a  right  to  be  jealous?  She  is 
always  interrupting  Harry  (Captain  Courtenay)  just 
when  I  get  him  interested  in  some  pet  scheme  of 
mine.  I  had  almost  made  him  promise  to  let  me 
ride  on  your  pony  some  day,  and  you  know  I  want 
to  learn  so  badly,  when  Miss  Swanson  came  up  with 
some  of  her  horrid  botany  and  a  new  species  of 
rose  in  her  hand  for  Captain  Courtenay  to  examine. 
I  wished  her  in  Botany  Bay  all  the  time.  But 
Harry  forgot  to  answer  my  question,  and,  whether 
he  was  interested  or  not,  proceeded  to  dissect  the 
rose  for  her  with  the  patience  of  a  saint.  Do  you 
know,  I  think  that  Harry  likes  her ;  for  I  ran  away, 
leaving  them  together,  and  he  never  looked  after  me 
or  even  noticed  my  departure.  It  is  natural  he 
should  admire  her  talents,  I  suppose  ;  but  you  know 
I  always  detested  botany,  and  persuaded  Mrs.  Os- 
good to  let  me  give  it  up.  Can't  you  give  me  lessons, 
Mattie?  I  would  try  so  hard  to  learn  for  Harry's 
sake." 


A  JEALOUS  LOVE.  121 

The  idea  of  tlie  volatile  little  creature  bendino^ 
her  head  over  such  an  abstruse  science  made  me 
smile  ;  and  perhaps  I  laughed  aloud  as  I  said : 

"  I  don't  believe  Captain  Courtenay  would  think 
half  so  much  of  you  were  you  to  lose  the  roses  from 
your  cheeks  and  the  light  from  your  eyes  in  learn- 
ing the  meaning  of  such  words  as  calyx,  stamens, 
styles,  filaments,  anthers,  cotyledons,  radicle,  and  so 
forth;  and  I  must  confess  I  should  be  amused  to 
hear  your  pretty  little  lips  pronouncing  such  words 
as  cryptogamia  and  the  host  of  technicalities  con- 
nected with  botanical  study.  If  your  little  head  had 
a  universal  botany  bound  up  in  it,  I  hardly  think  he 
could  love  you  more  than  he  does  now.  I  don't 
believe  that  I  should  love  you  so  much." 

Tliere  is  a  charm  for  some  men  about  modest, 
unpretending,  ignorant  beauty,  that  attracts  where 
the  utmost  polish  and  grace  which  education  some- 
times gives  to  woman  would  fail.  Annie  Glyde  was 
like  a  sweet,  uncultivated  wild  flower  sprung  up  in 
the  woods,  its  beauty  of  soul  and  its  fragrance  her 
sole  attractions ;  and  to  transplant  such  to  the  warmth 
of  an  atmosphere  suited  for  exotics  would  wither 
and  fade  it  for  ever^.  To  be  sure,  she  had  had  all 
the  advantages  of  education ;  but  hers  was  not  a 
mind  to  retain  anything  deeper  than  she  could  under- 
stand ;  she  was  a  child-woman. 

"  But  I  sometimes  think  that  he  tires  of  me.  I 
can't  use  big  words  out  of  the  dictionary  like  Miss 

6 


122  A  JEALOUS  LOVE. 

Swanson.  I  have  tried,  but  I  always  get  them 
jumbled  and  mixed  up,  so  that  Harry  laughs  at  me, 
and  then  I  get  confused,  and  he  says  :  '  How  beauti- 
ful you  look  now.'  Just  as  if  I  cared  for  the  com- 
pliment when  he  is  inwardly  making  fun  of  my 
mistakes  all  the  time." 

"  And  I  know  w^ould  like  to  take  you  in  his  great 
strong  arms  and  keep  you  there  until  you  learned  to 
appreciate  his  noble  heart,  with  its  wealth  of  love 
for  you.  You  must  not  trifle  with  his  affection  too 
much,  my  little  sister.  I  think  it  is  Addison  who 
says  :  '  Two  persons  who  have  chosen  each  other  out 
of  all  the  species  with  the  design  to  be  each  other's 
mutual  comfort  and  entertainment,  have  in  that 
very  action  bound  themselves  to  be  good-humored 
and  agreeable,  joyful,  forgiving,  and  patient  with 
respect  to  each  other's  frailties  and  imperfections  to 
the  end  of  their  lives.'  " 

"  I  am  sure  I  forgive  him.  I  always  forget  all 
about  it  and  Miss  Swanson,  too,  as  soon  as  he  hunts 
me  up  and  kisses  me.  But  then  I  made  a  discovery 
to-day.  You  know  that  he  wouldn't  take  me  to  the 
Mills  some  time  ago  when  I  asked  him,  and  he  went 
that  very  day  to  make  a  call  with  Miss  Swanson  ; 
she  told  me  so  herself." 

"  But,  my  dear  Annie,  you  must  remember  that 
Miss  Swanson  is  his  father's  guest,  and  he  is  conse- 
quently obliged  to  extend  to  her  all  the  rites  of 
hospitality." 


A  JEALOUS  LOVE.  123 

"  Just- like  you,  Mattie  ;  you  are  so  sensible,  and 
can  always  see  right  through  my  smoked  glass  I 
never  have  a  grievance  but  you  find  some  good 
reason  lor  its  cause.  You  must  be  very  happy  I 
wish  I  was  like  you,  Mattie.'' 

^  "  God  made  you  just  as  you  are,  little  sister,  and 
just  what  you  are.  He  has  given  you  some  dis- 
tmguislnng  trait,  just  as  He  has  given  birds  winces 
and  fishes  fins.  There  is  a  jewel  in  every  crown, 
but  people  do  not  always  see  it;  perhaps  yours  is 
beauty,  for  you  are  indeed  beautiful." 

"  Is  it  all  of  life  to  be  beautiful?  The  flowers  are 
beautiful,  but  they  are  trodden  under  foot  like  the 
stubble,  and  are  of  no  use  in  the  world." 

"Yes,  but  even  the  braise^  flower  gives  forth  an 
aroma,  and  thus  fulfils  its  destiny." 

"Do  you  believe  in  that  horrid  thing,  destiny? 
It  always  makes  me  tremble  to  think  of  it." 

"  You  do  not  understand  me.  I  mean  by  destiny 
the  purpose  for  which  it  was  created.  It  is  the  des- 
tiny of  birds  to  sing  and  fishes  to  swim.  I  mean  by 
destiny  the  aim  of  life  ;  the  object  for  the  attainment 
ot  which  we  live,  the  purpose  for  which  we  were 
created  and  designed.  I  do  not  entertain  that  shock- 
ing ;dea  of  a  sort  of  predestined  fate  awaiting  us, 
^ winch  we  cannot  avoid,  do  as  we  will." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  what  my  destiny  is,  Mattie  ?" 
"As  the  affianced  bride  of  Captain  Courtenay, 
your  destiny  is  a  high  one.     There  is  no  higher  des- 


124  A  JEALOUS   LOVE. 

tinj  for  a  woman  under  heaven  than  the  sacred  one 
of  marriage  ;  its  duties  are,  next  to  Christianity,  the 
highest  a  woman  is  called  upon  to  fulfil." 

"  You  frighten  me  ;  I  fear  the  burden  is  too  great. 
I  shall  never  make  him  the  wife  he  ought  to  have." 

'*  Not  if  you  continue  thus  to  doubt  his  love  and 
falter  on  the  threshold  of  wedlock.  A  woman  can 
never  fulfil  the  vows  she  takes  at  the  altar  unless 
she  makes  her  husband  a  confidante  of  even  her 
little  jealousies  and  backslidings.  He  does  not 
presume  that  he  has  caught  an  angel  and  cropped 
its  wings  that  it  shall  not  fly  back  into  heaven  again; 
but  he  knows  that  his  wife  is  only  a  woman  with  all 
the  pretty  weaknesses  of  her  sex ;  and  when  she 
comes  to  him  and  acknowledges  her  faults,  he  takes 
her  to  his  bosom  and  loves  her  all  the  more  for 
them.  Men  could  not  love  angels,  and  angelic 
women  seldom  inspire  love  ;  therefore  go  to  Captain 
Courtenay  and  wliisper  all  your  little  troubles 
into  his  listening  ear,  and  I  know  the  burden  will 
lighten." 

"  Oh,  if  I  only  could  do  that ;  but  I  can't.  I  feel 
as  if  it  was  requiring  too  much  of  me." 

"  I  fear  it  is  pride,  Annie  ;  pride.  There  is  no 
blacker  skeleton  in  a  household  than  this  very  pride 
which  comes  between  husband  and  wife  like  a  sha- 
dow on  their  sunshine ;  and  if  you  expect  to  be 
a  happy  wife,  begin  now  and  learn  to  humble  your- 
self sufficiently  to  make  away  with  this  worse  phan- 


A  JEALOUS  LOVE.  125 

torn  than  jealousy,  and  your  wedded  life  will  prove 
an  eternal  honeymoon." 

Perhaps  I  was  severe,  for  the  tears  trickled  out 
over  the  lashes,  and  fell  one  by  one  on  my  hand. 
But  I  loved  her — God  only  knows  how  I  loved  that 
sweet  little  erring  sister.  I  saw  a  shadow  broaden- 
ing in  her  horizon,  and  I  could  not  let  pass  the 
opportunity  to  counsel  her  and  dispel  the  cloud 
that  might  have  grown  into  a  storm  in  her  later 
life. 

Weeping  on  my  bosom  like  a  weary  dove,  tired 
of  the  life  around  her,  perplexed  with  what  she 
could  not  understand,  she  seemed  to  be  folding  her 
wings  prior  to  a  flight  on  the  journey  whither,  like 
birds  of  passage,  we  haste  over  the  river.  I  folded 
her  in  my  arms  and  laid  her  down  like  a  child  on 
her  couch.  I  smoothed  the  sunny  hair  from  her 
brow  for  a  few  moments,  and  when  I  stooped  to  kiss 
her,  she  slept  the  innocent  sleep  of  a  babe. 


i26  Hopkins's  mills. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

HopTcins's  Mills —  What  John  Guilder  string  said  to  me —  Wait. 

TiiERE  was  a  glory  in  the  bright  sunshine  that  fell 
on  our  little  fishing  party  that  clear  summer's  morn- 
ing in  the  long  ago.  Annie  Glyde,  Miss  Swanson, 
Captain  Courtenay,  and  Mr.  Jamieson  occupied  the 
carriage,  while  John  Guilderstring  and  I  were  in 
the  saddle.  What  a  buoyant  independence  there  is 
in  being  seated  on  one  of  nature's  noblest  convey- 
ances. You  fly  over  the  earth,  spurning  it  beneath 
you  with  a  wing-like  swiftness,  the  perfect  abandon 
of  an  eagle  soaring  in  the  sunshine,  ploughing  the 
ether  at  will.  I  was  a  good  horsewoman  ;  I  prided 
myself  on  my  perfect  equestrianship.  My  horse 
was  full  ot  fire  and  spirit  as  he  snuflfed  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  morning  air  with  distended  nostrils.  I 
felt  that  our  enjoyment  was  mutual.  Kever  ask  me 
to  get  inside  a  carriage-box  when  I  have  so  intoxi- 
cating and  invigorating  an  alternative. 

^'  Kow  for  a  trial  of  speed,  Miss  Klopenstene," 
and  giving  our  horses  a  loose  rein,  we  sped  away  on 
a  smooth,  gliding  canter,  until  the  carriage  lessened 
to  quite  a  speck  as  it  lazily  followed  with  its  cloud 
of  dust  in  the  distance.     For  several  miles  we  con- 


HOPKINS'S  MILLS.  127 

tinued  on  at  the  same  speed,  the  landscape  consisting 
onlj  of  sombre  fields,  until  suddenly,  like  magic,  the 
green  wood  opened  its  arms  'to  us,  and  we  found 
ourselves  in  a  shaded  road,  with  the  huge  branches 
almost  shaking  hands  over  our  heads  and  the  blue 
of  heaven  forming  a  keystone  to  the  almost  perfect 
arch. 

"  Here  is  a  dwelling  fit  for  the  fairies,"  said  John 
Guild  erstring. 

"  You  will  think  it  more  fitting  a  Druidical  cere- 
mony, I  think,  when  you  contrast  it  with  the  charms 
of  the  pond  shore,"  I  said. 

"  "Why  do  you  give  it  so  plebeian  a  title  ?  That 
word  makes  one  think  of  a  haunt  for  ducks  and 
geese.     Why  not  call  it  a  lake  ?" 

"It  is  too  small  to  claim  so  dignified  a  title  ;  be- 
sides, custom  sanctions  the  familiar  word  ;  the  old 
mill  that  stands  upon  the  bank  gives  it  its  name.  I 
have  never  heard  of  a  mill-lake." 

"  True,  a  mill  and  a  pond  are  requisite  to  make 
a  mill-pond ;  but  my  old  geography  definition  says 
a  lake  is  a  body  of  water  entirely  'surrounded  by 
land.  "We  can  have  small  lakes  as  well  as  lar^e 
ones,  can  we  not  ?" 

"  I  concede  the  point,"  I  said,  laughing ;  "  and 
confess  that  lake  is  more  poetical  and  falls  more 
musically  on  the  ear;  and  henceforth  we  will  call  it 
lake." 

I  think  I  must  have  blushed,  for  it  was  the  first 


128  HOPKINS'S  MILLS. 

time  I  had  ever  uttered  that  expressive  we  in  his 
presence.  It  showed  that  the  barrier  of  constraint  had 
been  broken  ;  that  henceforth  John  Guiklerstring  and 
I  would  coincide  in  many  things.  It  would  be  no 
longer,  I  think  so,  or  you  think  so ;  but  we — you  and  I 
— think  so. 

We  had  halted  beneath  the  trees  during  our 
conversation,  and  presently  the  party  in  the  car- 
riage joined  us.  Winding  our  way  down  along 
an  old  road  almost  overgrown  w^ith  scattered  fern 
.and  weeds,  we  soon  reached  the  shore  of  the  lake. 
Mr.  Jamieson  had  provided  fishing-tackle  for  the 
party  and  rendered  himself  generally  useful,  a  very 
unusual  thing  with  him.  It  was  a  picturesque  spot 
which  we  had  selected  for  our  piscatorial  sport. 
There  was  a  little  bend  or  crook  in  the  bank  that 
formed  a  sort  of  inlet,  and  around  this  the  remainder 
of  the  party  gathered  on  the  green  sloping  banks 
to  entice  the  little  swimmers  out  of  their  aqueous 
element.  John  Guilderstring  and  I  stood  by  and 
watched  them.  There  was  little  opportunity  for 
Miss  Swanson  to  interfere  with  my  sweet  little  jea- 
lous Annie  to-day,  for  Mr.  Jamieson  was  untiring  in 
his  devotional  attentions  to  that  young  lady ;  and 
she  perceiving  that  she  was  making  a  conquest,  was 
silly  enough  to  be  flattered  by  it  and  to  draw  hiiii 
on  like  a  skilful  angler.  Heaven  save  me  from  the 
presence  of  a  female  flirt ;  there  is  not  a  more  detest- 
able thing  under  the  sun  ;  and  he  was  foolish  enough 


Hopkins's  mills.  129 

to  close  his  eyes  to  the  fact  that,  while  he  was  baiting 
hooks  for  her  to  catch  fish,  she  was  baiting  a  hook 
to  entrap  his  empty  heart. 

I  never  before  noticed  so  holy  a  light  of  unalloy- 
ed happiness  beaming  from  the  eyes  of  my  sweet 
Annie  Glyde  as  I  noticed  on  this  occasion.  Captain 
Conrtenay  had  thrown  his  strong,  manly  arm  around 
her  for  support,  and  while  he  steadied  her  pole  with 
one  hand  he  baited  her  hook  with  the  other.  It  was 
a  beautiful  picture,  one  that  wears  a  bright  and 
golden  frame  in  my  memory— the  sunlight  falling 
through  the  leaves  and  flecking  the  greensward  ;  the 
sweet  scents  that  strayed  in  and  out  of  the  woods ; 
the  low,  muffled  sound  of  falling  waters  as  they 
rippled  over  the  dam ;  and  the  confused  rumbling 
of  the  mill-wheel. 

It  made  me  think  of  the  frail  flower  I  have  some- 
times seen  nestling  in  the  crevices  of  a  great,  flinty 
rock  that  shielded  it  for  ever  from  the  storm,  to 
look  at  that  frail,  beautiful  creature  nestling  in  the 
arms  of  that  great,  strong,  muscular  man  ;  and  I 
prayed  then  very  fervently  that  he  might  indeed 
take  her  and  shield  her  from  the  storms  of  life  for 
ever  and  ever. 

"^  Would  you  like  to  cast  in  your  net  ?"  said  John 
Guilderstring,  as  we  stood  watching  the  others 
silently. 

"  No,  sir  ;  I  think  it  cruel.  It  makes  me  shudder 
to  see  the  struggling,  gasping  little  creatures  drawn 

6* 


180 

60  unceremoniously  out  of  their  hiding-places.  I 
am  not  a  disciple  of  Izaak  Walton,  I  can  assure  you. 
I  never  fish." 

"  What  will  you  do  to  amuse  yourself,  then  ?" 

"  Me  !  Why  I  am  never  at  a  loss  for  amusement 
in  a  place  like  this.     I  shall  go  gipsying." 

"  I  shall  go  with  you,  then." 

"  As  you  please,"  said  I,  fastening  my  riding-skirt 
up  into  loops  with  pins,  while  he  stood  by  watching 
the  operation.  "  Bat  perhaps  1  shall  lead  you  into 
some  inextricable  path  where  you  might  not  be 
able  to  find  your  way  out." 

"  Would  you  not  be  with  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  should  prefer  not  being  an  actor  in  a 
parody  oh  the  lost  Babes  in  the  Wood." 

He  did  not  seem  to  relish  my  answer,  for  he  was 
silent.  Bidding  the  rest  of  the  party  an  adieu,  and 
promising  to  return  soon,  we  took  our  way  along  a 
little  foot-path  that  led  to  the  right  along  the  bank. 
John  Guilderstring  parted  the  branches  as  we  went 
along  in  single  file,  and  lifted  me  bodily  over  a 
little  marshy  rivulet  with  his  strong  arms.  He 
seemed  little  like  an  invalid  that  day ;  one  moment 
he  was  cheerful  and  laughing  with  me,  the  next  he 
was  strangely  and  suddenly  serious,  moody,  and 
thoughtful.  We  came  to  a  sort  of  dam  where  a 
little  boat  was  moored. 

"  Would  you  like  to  dip  an  oar.  Miss  EQopen- 
stene  ?"  he  asked,  as  his  eye  fell  on  it. 


Hopkins's  mills.  131 

"  With  pleasure,  if  it  will  not  spoil  the  sport  of 
the  fishers." 

He  said  that  it  would  not,  and  loosing  the  boat 
from  its  moorings,  he  drew  it  around  to  a  shallow 
cove  and  lifted  me  into  it.  Taking  the  oars,  he 
pushed  away  from  the  shore,  and  we  glided  along 
with  almost  an  imperceptible  motion  in  the  shadows 
of  the  trees  that  lined  the  banks.  He  was  a  good 
oarsman,  and  the  oars  made  scarcely  a  perceptible 
sound  as  they  fell  regularly  in  the  water.  The  sen- 
sation was  one  of  unalloyed  calm  to  me ;  a  sort  of 
soothing  quietude  gathered  in  my  heart  and  sealed 
my  lips.  We  neither  spoke  a  word  for  many  mo- 
ments, but  glided  along  as  still  and  smoothly  as  two 
human  hearts  gliding  down  the  river  of  time  toge- 
ther. 

jS'o  breath  of  air  stirred  the  leaves  of  the  wild  and 
overhanging  grape-vines :  no  sound  came  to  us  but 
the  rumbling  wheel  and  falling  water.  John  Guilder- 
string  was  thinking.  Suddenly  he  looked  up  at  me 
in  a  strange,  questioning  sort  of  way— not  eager,  but 
as  if  examining  his  own  heart  aloud. 

"  Miss  Klopenstene,  does  this  not  remind  you  of 
the  favorite  metaphor  of  life— the  boat,  the  stream, 
and  the  oarsman  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Did  you  ever  think  how  many  lonely  barques 
there  are  on  the  waters  of  time,  with  but  one  strug- 
gling heart  at  the  oar,  with  no  sweet  face  to  cheer 


132  HOPKINS'S  MILLS. 

and  no  lips  to  beguile  when  the  troublous  surf 
comes  beating  in  from  eternity,  as  I  have  to-day  ?'' 

"  I  think  a  brave  heart  can  withstand  the  storms 
of  life  better,  with  none  to  interfere  at  the  lielm," 
said  I,  evasively. 

"  Ah,  Martha — Miss  Klopenstene — do  not  mis- 
understand me.  As  we  now  row  on  the  bosom  of  this 
peaceful  lake,  with  my  hands  at  the  oar  and  your 
heart  as  my  freight,  so  let  us  together  launch  out 
on  the  sea  of  life  whose  turbulent  waters  will  dash 
np  against  our  great  indissoluble  love  in  vain,  and 
w^e  shall  row  on  eternally,  for  ever  and  ever,  until 
our  little  boat  falls  over  the  brink  of  time  and  we 
meet  on  the  sea  of  glass." 

His  face  was  fearfully  earnest.  Ifelt  that  he  loved 
me.  Did  I  love  him  ?  I  think  most  women  can 
foretell  what  John  Guilderstring  said  to  me  then, 
but  I  was  totally  unprepared  for  such  a  question, 
and  while  he  leaned  eagerly  forward  watching  me, 
I  answered  in  a  firm,  low  tone  : 

"  Wait.     I  cannot  answer  you  now." 

"  "When  ?"  asked  he,  in  a  low,  deep  monotone. 

"  "When  I  am  sure  that  my  love  for  you  is  stronger 
than  that  of  life." 


AN  ENCOUNTER.  133 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

The  Mill — Tennyson — An  Encount&r — William  Hartless. 

The  little  boat  glided  on  ;  the  oars  fell  just  as 
regtdarlj  in  the  strong  hands  ;  the  silence  was  just 
as  unbroken,  and  my  pulse  beat  no  swifter  because 
a  moment  ago  John  Guilderstring  had  knocked  at 
the  door  of  my  heart  and  I  had  refused  him  admit- 
tance. His  wooing  thus  far  had  been  a  strange  one. 
He  was  a  man  that  attached  a  great  deal  of  mean- 
ing to  a  small  and  unobtrusive  action,  I  think  that 
this  was  one  reason  why  I  had  failed  to  perceive  that 
his  affection  for  me  was  a  stronger  one  than  mere 
friendship.  I  do  not  know  that  he  had  ever  spoken 
of  love  to  me  before  our  aquatic  excursion.  He  was 
a  sort  of  pantomime  lover.  He  evidently  thought,  like 
most  men  of  acute  sensibilities,  that  to  be  much  in  a 
lady's  presence,  to  escort  her  hither  and  thither,  to 
press  her  foot  as  he  lifted  her  into  the  saddle,  to  take 
*her  hand  at  parting,  were  an  expressive  index  to  his 
warmer  feelings.  To  be  sure,  he  once  quoted  a  love 
scene  from  Tennyson's  Maud  with  some  fervor,  and 
I  was  destined  to  hear  more  of  his  favorite  bard. 

Did  I  love  him  ?     That  was  a  question  that  my 
heart  was  quietly  entertaining,  and  only  time  could 


134  AN    ENCOUNTER. 

answer:  "  Wait  and  see."  We  were  slowly  gain- 
ing a  little  rustic  landing-place  that  served  as  a 
mooring  for  several  small  craft  belonging  to  the 
mills,  when 

*'  On  a  sudden  a  low  breath 
Of  tender  air  made  tremble  in  the  hedge 
The  fragile  bind-weed  bells  and  briony  rings  ; 
And  he  looked  up." 

"  It  is  in  such  scenes  as  this,  Miss  Klopenstene, 
where  God  speaks  to  me.  I  once  told  you  that  I 
was  not  a  student  of  the  Bible,  but  in  nature  I  see 
a  Being  revealed  that  no  written  page  could  portray. 
It  is  this  Being  that  I  worship  and  call  God.  I  hold 
my  breath  and  hear  His  footsteps.  I  listen,  and  to 
my  soul  a  voice  finds  speech." 

"  In  nature,  sir,  you  may  indeed  see  God's  shining 
face,  His  power  and  majesty  ;  but  where,  oh,  where, 
in  the  wide  universe  can  you  find  Christ,  the  beatic 
Redeemer  of  the  cross  ?" 

*  He  was  silent  at  my  answer,  and  we  neither  broach- 
ed the  subject  then,  nor  ever  again.  The  sudden 
and  brief  interchange  of  thought  was  peculiar  to  us. 
We  had  become  acquainted  with  each  other's" 
idiosyncrasies,  and  respected  them. 

The  scene  that  burst  upon  us  now  was  truly  an 
intoxicating  one  in  its  sweet,  rural  simplicity.  Be- 
fore us,  locked  in  the  embraces  of  the  magnificent 
old  trees,  stood  the  mill,  with  its  great  conical,  mossy 


AN  ENCOUNTEK.  135 

gables,  from  one  of  which  obtruded  a  beam.  To 
the  end  of  this  beam  was  attached  a  rope  and  pulley. 
A  farmer  was  busily  unloading  his  grist,  while 
the  miller — the  dusty  white  miller — was  taking  it 
in  at  an  upper  window.  The  farmer  was  singing 
some  rustic  country  ditty  that  the  great  mill  wheel 
nearly  drowned  with  its  drowsy,  gurgling,  monoto- 
nous hymn. 

"Listen!"  exclaimed  John  Guilderstring.  "Do 
you  not  hear  the  song ,  that  the  water  is  singing  to 
the  wheel  ?    It  was  once  a  brook  : 

" '  I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles ; 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles, 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow- 
To  join  the  brimming  river ; 

For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever.'  " 

« 

"  It  is  very  beautiful,"  I  said. 

"You  like  Tennyson?" 

"  Only  sometimes.  I  wonder  if  the  miller  has 
a  daughter?" 

"  Why  ?" 

"  Because  this  would  be  such  an  appropriate  spot 
for  rendering  that  most  exquisite  of  all  productions, 
the  Miller's  Daughter." 

"  Do  you  know  it?' 

"  Yes,  entirely.     Would  you  like  to  hear  it  ?" 


136  AN  ENCOUNTER. 

"  Yes." 

"  Let  us  land  and  go  into  the  mill,  and  I'll  repeat 
it  for  you." 

We  moored  our  little  boat  and  entered  the  old  mill. 
While  the  rickety  machinery  rattled  and  creaked 
about  us,  and  the  stones  ground  together  with  that 
weird,  grating  hum ;  while  I  caught  the  warm, 
velvety  meal  in  my  hands  and  watched  the  hurry- 
ing revolutions  of  the  wheels  whirling  on  in  cease- 
less motion,  John  Guilderstring  repeated  that  sweet, 
sweet  song,  the  noblest  and  purest  laurel  in  the 
wreath  of  the  English  poet  laureate.  Did  his  magi- 
cal tones  deepen  as  he  looked  sadly  up  at  me  ?  I 
thought  so,  when  he  said : 

"  And  when  I  raised  my  eyes  above, 

They  met  with  two  so  full  and  bright- 
Such  eyes  1  I  swear  to  you,  my  love, 
That  these  have  never  lost  their  light." 

I  had  never  appreciated  its  beauties  until  now. 
The  time  and  place  were  indeed  appropriate.  The 
miller  was  unfortunately,  however,  a  bachelor. 
How  the  homely  description  sank  into  my  thoughts  : 

"  The  meal-sacks  on  the  whitened  floor ; 
The  dark  round  of  the  dripping  whee.; 
The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal." 

I  thought  John  Guilderstring's  voice  trembled  as 
he  said  : 


AN   ENCOUNTER.  137 

"  0  will  she  answer,  if  I  call  ? 
0  would  she  give  me  vow  for  vow, 
Sweet  Alice,  if  I  told  her  aU  ?" 

"We  left  the  mill  when  he  had  finished  the  recital,  for 
the  day  was  far  spent  and  the  shadows  had  length- 
ened across  the  lake  when  we  entered  the  boat  to 
return  to  the  other  side.  "We  were  nearing  the  spot 
from  which  we  started  in  the  morning,  and  where 
we  had  discovered  the  boat. 

"  Halloo,  there !"  shouted  some  one  on  shore 
in  a  harsh,  loud  tone. 

"  "Who  are  you  ?"  asked  John  Guilderstring. 

"We  could  see  no  one.  The  person  of  the  speaker 
was  hidden  amongst  the  bushes  that  grew  thick  and 
close  on  the  water's  edge.  A  moment's  silence  fol- 
lowed, and  the  voice  answered  : 

"  I  am  William  Hartless,  and  that  is  my  boat,  if 
you  please." 

I  looked  at  John  Guilderstring  with  unfeigned 
astonishment.  His  face  grew  suddenly  ashy  pale, 
and  the  oars  fell  with  a  splash  in  the  water  from  his 
limp  and  powerless  hands. 

"  You  are  sick,"  I  said,  alarmed  at  his  pal- 
lor. 

"  No,  no  ;  it  is  nothing  ;  nothing,  only  faintness. 
I  am  not  perfectly  well  yet." 

He  made  a  strong  efi'ort  to  appear  calm  and 
unmoved,  but  1  could  feel  the  boat  tremble  under 
me  as  he  shook  with  emotion.     "When  we  reached 


138  AN   ENCOUNTER. 

the  shore  the  man  came  out  from  among  the  bushes 
and  smiled,  as  he  said  in  a  familiar  tone : 

"  Why,  Guilderstring,  is  it  you  ?  Give  me  your 
hand,  old  boy.  My  dear  fellow,  I  am  glad  to  see 
you.  How  in  the  d —  did  you  ever  come  to  be  in 
these  parts  ?" 

John  Guilderstring  appeared  to  be  regardless  of 
the  man's  extended  hand,  and,  assuming  an  air  of 
contempt  for  the  fellow,  he  offered  me  his 
arm. 

"  That's  the  way  you  treat  your  former  friends,  is 
it?  Give  'em  the  cold  shoulder.  Use  my  boat 
without  asking  my  leave,  and  when  a  fellow  offers 
to  shake  hands  civilly  with  you,  treat  him  like  a 
dog ;  eh !  John  Guilderstring,  beware  how  you 
spit  upon  me.  I  am  not  a  senseless  worm  to  be 
trodden  on  at  your  pleasure.  1  am  a  serpent  that 
will  rise  up  and  sting  you  some  day  ;  have  you  for- 
gotten that  I  possess  a  secret  ?     Beware " 

The  man  would  have  continued  had  not  John 
broken  out  into  a  fit  of  frenzied  passion. 

"  Hush  !  you  dastardly  coward  ;  say  but  another 
word,  and  I'll  cast  your  senseless  body  into  the 
lake."  , 

I  felt  his  arm  shake,  and  I  saw  the  blood-red  flame 
of  anger  rush  up  into  his  forehead  and  leap  out  of 
his  eyes.  I  was  frightened.  He  looked  fearful — 
terrible. 

"  Come  away,  come  away,  John  Guilderstring," 


AN   ENCOUNTER.  139 

I  said,  and  pulling  him  by  the  arm  after  me,  I  led 
him  back  into  the  path. 

The  man  continued  his  gibes  and  mutterings  long 
after  we  departed  ;  but  I  gathered  nothing  from  them 
that  would  give  me  a  clue  to  the  actions  of  either 
of  these  men  at  their  accidental  meeting.  I  only 
remembered  that  that  man  possessed  a  secret,  and 
one  that  John  Guilderstring  evidently  did  not  care 
to  have  known.  There  was  then  a  dark  place  in 
his  life  that  he  had  never  revealed  to  me.  He  led 
the  way  in  moody  and  abstracted  silence,  until  I 
thoughtlessly  said  : 

"  You  did  not  know  the  man,  then  ?" 

"  Miss  Klopenstene,"  answered  he,  with  mingled 
pride  and  severity  in  his  tone,  "  never  ask  me  what 
I  am  unable  to  explain  to  you  without  jeopardizing 
my  happiness  for  ever.  Let  this  day  be  a  sealed 
book  to  both  of  us." 

What  did  he  mean  ?  Strange  words  these  to  come 
from  liim.  I  did  not  seal  the  book,  however,  for 
what  I  had  witnessed  made  me  restless.  There  was 
something  familiar  in  that  man's  face,  and  his  name, 
Hartless,  I  had  heard  it  before ;  strange  that  it 
should  escape  me.  Yes,  yes,  it  was  the  very  name. 
It  was  the  man  that  came  with  her  father  at  the 
burial  of  Charlotte  Cleytone.  My  heart  sank  with- 
in me.  A  shadow  had  fallen  on  my  day  of  sunshine 
— doubt,  suspicion,  dread,  a  commingling  of  uncer- 
tainties.    He  was  not  the   horseman   who  accom- 


140  AX   ENCOUNTER. 

panied  me  from  Oak  Side  in  the  morning— ^lat 
strange,  odd,  and  eccentric  moody  rider  that  rode 
with  me  again  back  in  the  evening. 


THE  FIRE.  141 


CHAPTEK  XX. 

The  Fire — Doubtings — A  Hound  on  the  Track — Suspicion. 

Life  rolled  away  without  much  incident  at  Oak 
Side  for  several  months.  Annie  Gljde  still  occasion- 
ally wandered  about  the  house  in  her  nocturnal 
visits.  Mrs.  Whipple  still  rendered  Watts's  Hymns 
in  all  her  original  and  wonted  fervor  ;  but  the  ghost 
stories  had  fallen  into  bad  repute,  even  with  Aunt 
Dinah,  who  still  presided  in  my  father's  kitchen.  It 
was  drawing  on  to  the  autumnal  season,  yet  John 
Guilderstring  still  remained  as  my  father's  tenant  at 
the  Pines.  He  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  Oak  Side. 
I  never  spoke  to  him  again  of  that  strange  man  we 
met  at  the  mills,  and  indeed  I  had  so  far  let  the  in- 
cident escape  ra&  as  to  treat  him  with  the  former 
cordiality  of  a  sister  towards  a  brother,  and  that 
was  all. 

It  was  one  of  those  clear,  chilly  nights  in  the 
early  autumn  that  I  was  awakened  from  a  sound 
sleep  b}^  unusual  sounds  and  bustle  in  the  house.  1 
arose  hastily  and  dressed  myself.  Looking  out  of  my 
window,  I  noticed  the  whole  face  of  the  sky  lighted 
up  by  a  lurid,  red  glare  that  sent  back  reflected  rays 
of  amber  light  into  my  very  face.     I  was  startled. 


142  THE   FIRE. 

I  went  below  and  met  Mrs.  "Whipple  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  the  Lord  preserve  iis !''  she  said,  with 
chattering  teeth  ;  "  the  old  house  over  at  the  Pines 
is  on  fire,  and  they'll  snrelj^  all  be  burned  alive  ;  the 
Lord  have  mercy  on  their  souls,"  and  she  sat  down 
shaking  with  terror. 

I  did  not  stop  to  ask  my  heart  who  her  "  they" 
meant. 

"  Where's  my  father  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  000  !  He's  gone  over  to  the  fire,  and  he'll 
be  burnt  with  the  rest  of  'em." 

I  opened  the  outer  door  and  looked  out  across  the 
fields  ;  the  little  path  was  as  visible  in  the  light 
of  the  conflagration  as  it  was  in  broad  day.  The 
old  house  on  fire  and  its  occupant  in  jeopardy ! 
I  was  a  creature  of  impulses.  I  must  go.  Some- 
thing told  me  I  was  needed — something  whispered, 
Go.  Throwing  a  thick  shawl  about  my  shoulders,  I 
stole  forth  into  the  night,  and  alone  took  my  way 
across  the  fields  towards  the  burning  tenement.  I 
did  not  walk.  I  think  I  ran,  so  swiftly  did  I  pass 
over  the  intervening  distance.  It  was  a  scene  that 
chilled  my  blood,  as  I  stood  helplessly  by  and 
watched  the  thirsty,  hungry  flames  devouring  my 
childhood's  home — my  old  Hibernian  soldier,  who 
had  battled  and  withstood  the  assault  of  so  many 
years,  succumbing  to  the  yellow  element  at  last. 


THE   FIKE.  143 

His  military  crown  fell  in  with  a  crash,  gable  after 
gable ;  and  at  last  the  great,  tall  lightning-rod  fell 
with  a  sudden  plunge  into  the  mass  of  barning 
ruins ;  his  bayonet  gone,  he  was  disarmed  and  dis- 
abled for  ever.  The  tears  came  into  my  eyes  as  I 
thought  of  the  desolation  so  ravenous  a  foe  would 
leave  behind  him — the  pitiless,  merciless  enemy ! 
I^ot  even  the  huge  old  barns  were  exempt  from 
destruction ;  they,  too,  caught  the  contagious  flame, 
and  were  soon  converted  into  a  mass  of  giant, 
crackling  flames.  I  stood  back  in  the  shadow  of 
some  shrubbery  and  watched  the  movements  of  the 
crowd  as  they  hurried  hither  and  thither.  Many  had 
come  all  the  way  from  the  village,  alarmed  by  the 
brilliancy  of  the  reflection.  .  But  why  did  my  eyes 
so  earnestly  search  that  motley  crowd  that  hovered 
like  phantoms  around  an  enchanted  flame  ?  My 
heart  answered  my  lips  for  the  first  time  as  I  stood 
there  alone  in  the  darkness,  listening  to  its  rapid 
pulsations. 

Why  had  my  feet  brought  me  out  on  a  lonely 
journey  in  the  deep,  dark,  lonely  night  ?  My  soul 
opened  its  secret  door,  and  the  faint  streaks  of  a 
dawning  passion  were  visible  ;  my  love  stood  upon 
the  threshold  and  revealed  itself  to  me.  I  saw  it 
and  I  trembled.  My  eye  rested  not  until  it  fell  upon 
John  Guilderstring,  and  I  was  satisfied ;  he  was  safe. 
I  loved  him,  and  my  heart  acknowledged  it  for  the 
first  time.    I  saw  his  tall,  shapely  figure  in  its  manly 


144  THE   FIRE. 

beauty  relieved  by  the  fiery  background,  and  a 
thrill  of  joy  sank  down  into  my  heart.  I  singled 
out  but  that  one  form  moving  about  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, self-collected,  calm,  commanding.  I  forgot 
even  the  love  I  bore  my  father.  I  forgot  that  he 
was  in  danger ;  but  as  I  turned  away  from  the 
strange  scene,  the  door  of  my  heart  that  had  stood 
ajar,  revealing  its  hidden  secrets  to  me,  closed  again, 
and  I  was  only  Martha  Klopenstene,  and  he  to  me 
was  only  John  Guilderstring  ;  my  friend  John,  and 
nothing  more.  While  he  was  endangered,  I  felt  that 
my  life  could  be  freely  sacrificed  for  his ;  but  now 
that  I  was  assured  of  his  safety,  oh,  strange  incon- 
sistency, he  was  to  me  only  a  man  ennobled  and 
respected  by  me,  but  I  thought  not  yet  admitted 
beyond  the  threshold  of  my  heart.  I  could  not  per- 
suade myself  that  he  was  to  me  more  than  a  brother ; 
and,  as  I  took  my  way  back  across  the  lonely  heath 
to  my  father's  house,  I  said  unto  my  heart :  "  Wait ; 
you  have  not  proved  him  yet;  wait  yet  a  little 
longer." 

I  must  have  walked  very  slowly  along  the  little 
winding  path,  for  presently  I  heard  two  voices 
commingling  in  conversation,  and  looking  back,  I  saw 
two  figures  in  the  same  path  apparently  following 
me.  I  recognised  in  the  light,  which  was  still  very 
briorht,  John  Guilderstrino^  and  mv  father. 

My  first  impulse  was  flight,  for  I  felt  some  shame  at 
being  discovered  out  there  in  the  night  and  alone  ;  but 


THE   FIEE.  145 

they  evidently  saw  me,  and  I  waited  until  they  came 
np  to  the  spot  wliere  I  was.  John  Guilderstring  was 
the  first  to  recognise  me,  and  as  he  spoke  I  thought 
I  saw  a  great  weight  of  pain  in  his  countenance, 
and  a  shudder  crept  over  his  frame  as  he  exclaimed  : 
•'  My  God  !  you  here.  Miss  Klopenstene — Martha ! 
The  night  air,  with  its  penetrating  chill,  will  kill 
you,"  and  taking  off  a  greatcoat  that  was  on  his 
shoulders,  he  wrapped  me  in  its  folds  as  tenderly  as 
a  mother  would  a  babe.  I  was  indeed  cold  and 
chilled,  for  I  coughed  much  as  I  took  my  father's 
arm,  leaving  John  to  walk  on  alone  behind 
us. 

"  My  daughter,  this  is  very  indiscreet  in  you  ; 
remember  your  mother." 

Poor,  dear,  self  sacrificing  father  tl^at  he  was,  in 
chiding  me  he  had  forgotten  himself  entirely.  1 
believe  that  on  this  very  night  he  contracted  the  cold 
from  which  he  never  recovered,  and  I  am  still  left 
to  chronicle  it.  We  walked  on  in  silence  until  we 
gained  the  threshold  at  Oak  Side,  when  my  father 
said  : 

"  Guilderstring,  you  are  welcome  to  make  this 
your  home  as  long  as  you  please  to  sojourn  amongst 
us." 

He  stood  hesitatingly  and  looked  up  at  me  with  a 
beseeching  earnestness  in  his  face.  I  saw  it,  and 
interpreted  it  aright.  Extending  my  hand  to  him  I 
said : 

7 


146  THE   FIRE. 

"Mr.  Guiiderstring,  you  are  welcome  to  Oak 
Side,"  and  we  went  into  the  house. 

My  father  remained  up  some  time  listening  to 
John's  recital  of  the  incidents  at  the  fire.  Its  origin 
was  unknown  ;  but  John  Guilderstring  had  his  sus- 
picions of  who  the  incendiary  was,  for  when  my 
father  happened  to  leave  the  room,  leaning  over  to 
me,  he  said  quietly  : 

"  I  believe  that  William  Hartless,  that  man  I  saw 
at  the  lake,  was  the  author  of  this  mischief." 

"  Why  ?"  I  asked. 

'*  Because  he  came  to  me  for  money  last  evening, 
which  I  refused." 

"  Why  should  he  commit  such  an  act  ?" 

"  Because  he  hates  me." 

"  For  what  reason  does  he  hate  you  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you.     I  cannot  lie." 

I  said  no  more.  Tliere  was  a  reserved  place  which 
he  would  not  allow  me  to  penetrate.  He  had  a 
secret ;  there  was  a  void  between  us.  He  gave  me 
not  all  of  his  confidence  and!  withheld  mine  ;  distrust 
begets  distrust,  and  we  stood  apart. 

"  Why  went  you  out  to-night  at  so  much  peril  to 
yourself?"  he  asked,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  I  was  anxious  for  my  father." 

He  looked  pained  at  my  answer. 

"  Was  there  indeed  no  interest  taken  in  the  wel- 
fare and  safety  of  a  humbler  person  to  draw  you  a 
little  way  from  home  when  he  was  imperilled  ?" 


THE   FIRE.  147 

"  I  am  always  interested  when  human  life  is  endan- 
gered," said  I,  slowly. 

"You  are  not  frank  with  me." 

"  And  indeed,  Mr.  Guilderstring,  you  are  not 
frank  with  me." 

"  Would  to  God  that  I  could  ! — that  I  could  open 
my  heart  and  expose  its  secrets  to  no  harsher  judge 
than  yourself,  and  you  would  then  read  what 
my  tongue  can  never  explain,"  exclaimed  he,  vehe- 
mently. 

I  was  glad  that  we  were  interrupted  by  my  father's 
entrance. 

"  It  seems  we  have  a  little  romance  in  real  life 
about  us,  Guilderstring,"  said  my  father.  "John 
Day  tells  me  he  has  discovered  that  old  Christopher, 
my  tenant  at  the  little  house  near  the  lane's  end,  is 
a  prince  in  disguise,  a  nabob,  or  something  of  the 
sort,  assuming  the  character  of  a  recluse  among  us." 

"  Indeed  !"  said  John  Guilderstring.  "  Give  us 
the  story  ;  it  must  be  very  entertaining." 

"  There  is  no  story  connected  with  it,"  said  my 
father,  "  ae  we  have  not  learned  the  sequel  yet, 
further  than  that  his  name  is  not  Christopher  at  all, 
but  Cleytone.     Yes,  Cleytone  ;  that's  it." 

He  emphasized  the  name.     I  was  seated  opposite 
^to  John  Guilderstring,  and  I  saw  the  sudden  paling 
of  his  face,  as  he  exclaimed  in  a  low  agony  : 

"  Cleytone  !  Cleytone  !  did  you  say  ?  O  God  ! 
here,  and  so  near  me,  like  a  hound  on  the  track  !" 


148  THE   FIRE. 

Mj  father  seemed  surprised. 

"  You  know  liim,  then,  Mr.  Guilderstring  V* 

*'No,  no,"  said  John,  incoherently.  "Merely  a 
strange  resemblance  to  a  name  1  once  heard  in 
youth  ;  that  is  all." 

A  dread  certainty  seized  me.  If  that  was  all, 
why  that,  trembling  hand  that  he  placed  in  mine 
that  night — the  tremulous,  nervous,  excited  tone  ? 
AYhy  the  shaking  form,  and  slow,  weary  step  that  I 
noticed  ? 

Ah !  that  was  not  all,  John  Guilderstring ;  not 
all. 


THE   FURNACE   OF   FIRE.  149 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

The  Furnace  of  Fire — Old  Christopher  at  the  Grave. 

Doubt,  consternation,  agony,  were  clutching  at  my 
heart  and  drawing  me  into  strange  vagaries  and 
reflections.  Into  what  deep,  dark  pit  of  inextricable 
m^^stery  was  Providence  plunging  my  fate  ?  I  was 
like  one  walking  in  a  dream ;  indeed,  I  should  not 
have  been  surprised  had  I  been  walking  the  silent 
night  watches  like  Annie  Glyde,  so  perplexing  were 
the  intricate  mazes  of  thought  that  filled  and  haunt- 
ed my  brain,  plunging  me  into  an  ocean  of  fathom- 
less revery  and  gloom.  With  the  same  instinctive 
love  of  solitude  that  had  drawn  me  towards  them 
when  a  child,  I  went  forth  in  the  autumn  after- 
noon to  commune  with  the  pines.  They  consoled 
me  with  their  almost  silent,  subdued  hymn,  so 
grandly  did  they  open  their  great  verdant  branches 
like  huge  arms  to  enfold  me  in  their  embrace  of 
solitude,  and  leave  me  to  myself.  I  know  not  what 
thoughts  were  uppermost  in  my  mind  as  I  walked 
the  woodland  path  that  afternoon.  Doubt,  only 
doubt,  was  the  great  demon  that  dwelt  in  my  bosom 
— doubt  of  heaven,  doubt  of  God,  that  in  His  in- 
finite mercy  and  goodness  He  should  let  such  things 


150  THE   FURNACE   OF   FIRE. 

take  place  ;  wliile  Ilis  power  was  so  infinite  that  lie 
Bhoiild  let  the  black  serpent  of  sin  creep  into  a 
world  that  was  so  beautiful,  lying  out  in  the  bright 
sunshine  of  Ilis  love  ;  doubt  of  man,  of  all  men, 
since  my  heart  rose  up  to  slander  John  Guilderstring, 
to  cast  a  blight  on  his  honor,  his  fair  fame,  his  life. 

Life  seemed  all  bitter;  nothing  but  rue  and  worm- 
wood. I  saw  not  the  flowers  that  summer  had  yet 
left  in  the  lap  of  autumn  ;  only  the  dead,  withering 
emblems  of  death,  the  decaying  leaves,  the  unresur- 
rected  dust. 

That  name  my  father  had  repeated  on  the  evening 
of  the  fire,  the  previous  day  my  mind  was  not  long 
in  searching  it  out  of  the  book  of  memory  ;  it  was 
the  name  I  heard  John  Day  repeat  years  ago  in  my 
girlhood.  It  was  the  name  w^ritten  above  the  rude 
and  lonely  grave  of  the  "  beautiful,  but  lost,  lost !" 
These  w^ords  had  now  a  significance  to  me,  indeed  ; 
and  my  doubting  heart  rose  up  like  a  great  Is'emesis, 
pointing  to  John  Guilderstring  and  saying:  "Thou 
art  the  man."  I  saw  the  fair,  white  face  in  its  rude 
coffin  as  distinctlv  as  I  had  seen  it  when  the  strantjers 
left  it  for  its  rude  burial ;  and  the  spirit  of  the  dead 
and  injured  girl  hovered  near  me,  whispering  retri- 
bution. 

I  sought  out  the  lonely  spot.  I  wandere-d  along 
the  silent  and  deserted  path  that  was  still  distinctly 
traced  through  the  woods,  and  sought  the  habitation 
of  the  dead.     I  suspected  that  old  Christopher  had 


THE   FURNACE   OF   FIRE.  151 

indeed  a  motive  in  living  a  recluse  in  my  father's 
old  tenement-house.  The  desire  of  a  parent  to  be 
near  his  child,  his  banished,  injured  dead.  The 
strange  stories  of  the  lane's  end  being  haunted  and 
ghosts  having  been  seen  were  all  explained  to  me 
at  last.  It  was  only  the  mortal  clay,  the  suffering 
heart,  the  bruised  affection  of  the  father,  drawing 
him  near  the  grave  of  his  lost  child — a  communing 
of  life  with  death,  of  the  corporeal  with  the  spiritual. 
These  were  all  conjectures.  I  made  no  one  a  confi- 
dante of  the  troubles  that  were  dashing  like  a  stormy 
sea  over  my  soul.  It  is  strange,  but  I  never  was 
fond  of  reposing  confidence  in  any  one.  While  others 
came  to  me  and  sometimes  revealed  the  minutest 
details  of  their  lives,  I  closed  my  heart  against 
them.  Annie  Glyde,  my  father,  and  even  staid 
Mrs.  Whipple,  made  me  their  confessor.  But,  like 
a  confessor,  I  never  exposed  my  own  secret  and 
hidden  thoughts. 

It  was  drawing  near  to  the  hour  of  sunset,  and  the 
great  shadows  of  the  Pines  made  a  twilight  as  I 
walked  on  towards  the  graveyard.  My  eyes  were 
so  blackened  with  the  pain  of  intense  thought  and 
misery  that  I  came  upon  the  fence  before  I  was 
aware  of  it.  I  climbed  the  railing.  There  stood 
the  little  mound,  even  now  untouched  by  the 
frosts,  for  the  flowers  that  crowned  it  were  bright 
and  beautiful  as  hope  sitting  down  at  the  tomb. 
The    letters   were    not    yet  effaced  by  the  storms 


152  THE   FURNACE    OF   FIRE. 

of  winters,  and  I  read  again  the  homely  inscrip- 
tion : 

Charlotte  Cleytone, 

Buried  September  10,   18 —  ; 

History  Unknown. 

It  burnt  itself  into  my  memory  like  a  red  hot 
brand  of  fire.  I  gazed  fixedly  upon  it  as  I  would 
upon  a  serpent  that  was  charming  me  while  it 
prepared  to  sting.  I  could  not  weep.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  I  had  ever  known  a  pain  too  sharp, 
too  deep  in  its  probing  power  to  be  relieved  by 
tears.  I  sat  there  like  one  in  a  nightmare,  until  I 
was  startled  by  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps. 
I  gained  the  other  side  of  the  fence  and  hid  my 
person  behind  the  hedge  of  wild  brambles.  The 
sound  of  crackling  branches  drew  nearer  and  nearer, 
until  presently  an  old  man  emerged  from  the  woods 
at  the  further  side,  next  the  tenement-house.  In- 
stinct told  me  that  it  was  none  other  than  old 
Christopher.  He  soon  made  his  appearance.  With 
much  difiiculty  he  climbed  the  fence,  and  my  heart 
beat  with  a  dead,  mufiled  slowness  as  I  saw  him 
approach  the  grave  of  Charlotte  Cleytone.  Baring 
his  grey  and  venerable  head  as  he  approached,  he 
exposed  a  brow  and  face  that  I  had  surely  seen 
somewhere  before.  I  could  not  be  mistaken.  Al- 
though ten  years  older  in  appearance,  I  recognised 
in  that  old  and  broken-down  man,  crushed  with  his 


THE   FURNACE   OF   FIRE.  153 

weight  of  sorrow,  the  stranger  whom  T  had  met 
years  ago  at  the  buriaL  The  same  peculiar  quiver, 
caused  by  deep  suffering,  gathered  in  manifold 
wrinkles  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  My  hrst 
thought  was  to  speak  to  him  and  ask  him  boldly 
what  my  heart  was  striving  to  solve.  But  the 
apparent  grief,  the  sad  expression  of  his  calm  face, 
were  too  sacred  to  be  disturbed  now. 

I  had  heard  of  his  fits  of  insanity,  but  I  could 
detect  nothing  in  his  face  but  grief,  mute  and  inex- 
pressible sorrow.  But  Christ  knows  that  grief  and 
sorrow  are  sufficient  burdens  to  unbalance  the  mind, 
and«  perhaps  I  learned  it  afterwards.  I  was  confi- 
dent now  that  old  Christopher  was  none  other  than 
the  fatlier  of  Charlotte  Cleytone,  and  a  great  sooth- 
ing pity  filled  me  for  the  sorrows  of  that  miserable, 
heart-broken  old  man.  My  own  perplexities  assumed 
a  different  form.  I  felt  that  my  griefs  were  lessened 
by  contrast  with  his  ;  that  God  had  been  lenient 
and  good  to  me,  while  He  had  been  severe  to  him. 
I  was  abashed.  I  turned  away,  leaving  the  old  man 
standing  where  the  setting  sun  left  a  halo  of  glory 
about  his  head,  and  the  evening  breeze  lifted 
the  white  hairs  from  his  brow,  like  the  fingers  of 
angels,  alone  with  his  dead.  I  know  not  now  what 
were  the  sensations  that  I  felt  towards  John  Guilder- 
string.  I  doubted  him,  and  yet  I  could  scarcely 
credit  such  cruel,  ignominious  doubts.  One  moment 
I  was   conscious   of    his  guilt,  and   asked   myself 

7* 


154  THE   FURNACE   OF   FIRE. 

slioiild  not  I  feel  as  Clirist  did  when  He  said  to  tlic 
adulteress  :  "  Go,  and  sin  no  more." 

Tiie  next  found  me  confident  of  liis  innocence, 
and  I  rose  np  to  protect  his  honor  against  myself. 
As  I  had  left  my  house  at  night,  when  he  was  in 
jeopardy  at  the  fire,  so  now  I  left  my  doubts  and 
protected  him  from  the  slander  of  my  doubtful  con- 
victions. As  the  door  of  my  heart  had  opened  and 
revealed  its  secrets  to  me  then,  so  now  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  feeling  that  I  could  not  understand,  nor 
can  I  define  a  something  that  troubled  me.  It  was 
not  the  friendship  of  friend  for  friend.  It  was  not 
the  aflfection  of  a  sister  for  a  brother  ;  it  was  not  the 
pity  of  a  pure  woman  for  a  sinful  and  erring  man  ; 
it  was  not  justice  struggling  with  unjust  accusation  ; 
it  was  neither  of  these.  What  was  it,  then  ?  Was 
it  love  ?  Perhaps  I  know  not.  I  only  know  that  I 
was  a  helpless,  struggling  woman,  fighting  with  my- 
self, striving  to  find  the  path  of  duty,  seeking  for 
the  sunshine  in  the  storm,  looking  for  the  rainbow  on 
the  cloud ;  but  the  storm  beat,  the  rains  fell,  the 
winds  blew,  and  demolished  my  beautiful  structure  of 
hope,  for  its  foundation  was  not  builded  upon  a  rock, 
but  on  the  sand,  and  it  fell  with  a  crash  to  the  earth. 


THE   STORM   AND   THE    CURSE.  155 


CHAPTER  XXn. 

Fleeing  from  Myself— The  Storm  and  the  Curse — The  Accusing 
Finger  and  John  Guildersiring's  Confession — Old  Christo- 
pher's Death. 

Anywhere  !  anywhere !  to  flee  from  my  own 
thoughts  and  avoid  John  Guilderstring.  This 
dread  uncertainty  was  killing  me.  I  kept  out  of  his 
way  ;  and  he,  moody  and  silent,  I  think  avoided  me. 
Did  he  suspect  my  thoughts  ?  I  tliink  not,  or  he 
would  have  striven  to  justify  himself  in  my  eyes.  Oh, 
heaven,  can  any  man  justify  such  a  cruel,  heartless 
act  in  the  eyes  of  a  pure  woman  !  God  forbid.  Did 
I  love  him  now  ?  Yes,  I  fear  in  the  midst  of  dread 
suspicions  and  sorrow,  a  great  angelic  love  lifted  its 
form  from  the  chaos  and  struggled  with  duty. 
Human  nature  is  prone  to  see  something  beautiful 
even  in  sin.  I  remembered  his  words  in  the  con- 
versation at  our  first  meeting :  "  I  cannot  picture 
to  you  the  evils  I  wrought  in  my  early  manhood.  I 
brought  a  fond  and  indulgent  mother  in  early  gre^'' 
hairs  to  tlie  grave,  and  was  banished  from  my 
father's  house  because  of  a  disgrace  I  brought  to  the 
family  name."  I  remembered  the  contrite  tone. 
Did  he  not  give  me  fair  warning  ?    And  was  this  the 


156  THE  STORM   AXD  THE   CU*RSE. 

man  I  loved  ?     I  shuddered  then  at  his  words.    But, 

0  God  !  I  did  not  think  it  was  this — this  foulest, 
blackest  blot  on  the  souls  of  men.  I  siiut  mvself 
in  my  room  and  pondered  over  my  books  f<»r  hnurs 
together ;  my  indulgent  father  had  provided  me 
with  this  means  of  refuge  at  least,  and  I  fled  like  a 
stricken  bird  to  cover.  I  strove  to  drown  myself  in 
the  pages  of  thought  emanating  from  genius.  But 
the  mind  will  not  always  be  guided  by  our  desires, 
and  1  found  not  the  rest  which  I  sought.  It  was 
Friday  morning — a  bright,  beautiful,  warm  day. 
Annie  Glyde  and  Captain  Courtenay  were  enjoy- 
ing a  tete-d-tete  on  the  terrace  fronting  the  lawn. 
Sweet  Annie,  she  was  very  happy  now  since  Miss 
Swansoii  had  left  for  her  city  home — an  element  that 
suited  her  best.  She  would  come  to  me  sometimes, 
for  she  felt  that  I  was  troubled,  and,  smoothing  the 
hair  from  my  brow  with  her  soft,  white  hands,  would 
whisper : 

"  1  can't  be  happy  while  you  are  sorrowful." 
My  father  came  in  from  a  short  walk.  He  seldom 
left  the  house  much  now  in  consequence  of  the 
attendant  exhaustion.  He  was  growing  weaker.  I 
used  every  effort  to  keep  him  in  the  open  air  when 
the  weather  would  permit. 

"  Come,  father,"  I  said,  on  this  morning,  "  I  have 
some  shopping  to  do  in  Haddonsfield  this  morning. 

1  want  you  to  drive  me  over  to  the  village.  The 
fresh  air  will  do  yc)U  good." 


THE   STORM   AND   THE   CUESE.  157 

I  was  glad  when  I  heard  him  give  the  order  to 
Jolni  Day,  who  was  working  for  my  fatlier  now  at 
Oak  Side.  He  had  left  his  old  business  of  grave- 
digging  and  been  metamorphosed  into  a  hostler  at 
Oak  Mountain.  John  Guilderstring  came  out  as  we 
got  into  the  carriage.  He  looked  ill,  and  I  thought 
grieved.     His  eyes  said  to  me  : 

"  Am  I  not  your  slave  ever  at  your  service  ?  Why 
not  let  me  be  your  escort  ?" 

I  could  not  look  at  him  long.  The  great  change 
in  his  appearance  surprised  me;  his  pale,  sickly 
face  startled  me.  There  was  scarcely  a  breath  of 
air  when  we  set  out ;  all  was  still  and  sultry  as  a  mid- 
summer's noon.  But  we  had  not  gained  the  edge 
of  the  woods  through  which  the  road  led  before 
quite  a  breeze  set  in,  and  a  fleet  of  thin,  vapory 
clouds  floated  down  towards  the  tops  of  the  pine-trees. 

My  father  noticed  the  indications  of  a  thunder- 
shower,  and  said  we  must  be  hasty  or  the  storm 
would  overtake  us.  We  reached  the  village.  I 
made  my  purchases  hurriedly,  and  we  were  on  our 
way  back.  We  had  just  reached  the  wood  when 
the  lightning  began  to  play  with  terrible  rapidity 
about  us,  and  a  stroke  fell  on  the  devoted  head  of  a 
giant  pine,  splintering  and  shivering  it  to  atoms,  not 
fifty  yards  from  us.  Our  steed  made  good  time,  and 
the  clatter  of  his  hoofs  echoed  loudly  through  the 
forest  in  unison  with  the  great,  loud  thunder-claps 
that  made  him  start  on  like  a  frightened  deer. 


158  THE  STORM   AND  THE   CURSE. 

We  had  nearly  reached  the  door  of  tlie  tenement- 
house  that  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  occupied  by 
that  strange  incognito,  old  Christopher,  when  tlie 
drops  fell  about  us  large  and  full,  something  like 
hail. 

*'  Go  in  here,"  said  my  father  as  he  alighted, 
"while  I  go  and  send  a  covered  carriage  after 
yon." 

I  knocked  at  the  door  once — twice — thrice  ;  no 
answer  came  to  my  repeated  summons.  The  rain  was 
falling  thicker  and  faster;  my  father  had  driven  away ; 
and  I  stood  there  on  the  threshold  alone.  I  smother- 
ed ray  compunctions,  and,  to  escape  the  storm  and 
seek  a  shelter,  I  pushed  open  the  unlocked  door.  I 
entered  the  room  ;  no  one  was  there  ;  it  was  almost 
empty,  and  as  I  looked  about  me  I  pitied  the  forlorn 
being  who  dwelt  here  in  solitude  and  abject  misery, 
a  recluse  from  all  the  social  adjuncts  that  serve  to 
make  up  life — happy,  congenial  life.  I  had  not  re- 
mained thus  sitting  alone  with  my  thoughts  yqtj 
long  before  I  heard  the  shuffling  of  feet  in  the  next 
room.  Presently  the  door  opened  and  the  strange 
old  man  stood  before  me  again.  He  was  indeed  a 
pitiable  object — old  and  miserable,  almost  childlike 
in  his  helplessness.  His  whole  aspect  was  that  of  a 
man  prematurely  old.  His  hair  was  white  as  snow, 
and  the  only  remnant  of  his  departed  youth  was  the 
melancholy  fire  that  still  lit  up  his  large,  black  eyes. 
He  started  as  he  discovered  a  visitor,  a  thing  I  guess 


THE   STOKM   AND   THE    CURSE.  159 

of  very  rare  occurrence  with  him.  I  bowed  as  he 
lifted  his  form  ahnost  erect  and  attempted  to  smile 
a  welcome.  There  was  a  distingue  air  about  his 
querulous  attempts  at  politeness.  Again  I  recog- 
nised the  distracted  father.  It  must  be  he.  I  could 
not  be  mistaken  now ;  all  my  doubts  vanished. 
Tlie  same  contour,  the  voice  in  its  tremulousness 
had  the  same  tone. 

"  You  are  welcome,  young  lady,"  he  said  ;  "  be 
seated,"  and  he  placed  a  chair  for  me  without  lift- 
ing his  eyes  to  my  face,  while  he  drew  on§  for  him- 
self near  the  opposite  window. 

*'  Miss  Klopenstene,  my  landlord's  daughter,  I 
believe  ?" 

I  told  him  yes,  and«explained  to  him  the  circum- 
stances that  led  to  my  seeking  a -refuge  from  the 
storm  beneath  his  roof. 

'^  My  fire  is  out,  Miss  ;  I  am  sorry  for  it.  I  have 
dismissed  Jacob  and  live  now^  entirely  alone  ;  but 
I  am  very  glad  that  my  roof  affords  shelter  to  you." 

His  voice  trembled  as  he  added,  in  a  soft,  low 
voice,  as  if  talking  with  himself: 

"  I  once  had  a  daughter.  Yes,  she  was  about  the 
same  age  when  she  died.  No,  not  when  she  died  ; 
when  she  was  murdered !" 

He  drew  a  heavy  sigh,  and  my  heart  leaped  into  my 
mouth  at  his  strange  words.  He  could  not  see  my 
emotion.  It  was  almost  a  twilight  in  the  room,  so 
heavy  w^as  the  canopy  of  clouds  that  hung  over  the 


160  THE   STORM   AND   THE   CURSE. 

house.  I  could  only  see  the  old  man's  face  distinctly 
enonsch  to  mark  its  varied  chan<]:es  in  the  occasional 
glare  of  a  lightning  flash.  But  I  saw  enough  ;  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  tremhled  in  the  old  way,  and 
a  tear  fell  out  of  his  eye  on  to  his  hand.  The  whole 
burden  of  my  concentrated  surmises  and  doubts 
rushed  upon  me  for  a  moment.  I  forgot  all  else. 
Xow  was  the  time  to  tear  away  the  veil  and  see  the 
naked  truth.  These  things  impelled  me  onward  ; 
the  impulse  was  irresistible  ;  I  must  speak. 

"  Your  name  is  not  Christopher,  it  is  Cleytone; 
and  your  child  lies  buried  out  in  yonder  graveyard  ? 
Tell  me,  oh,  tell  me  is  it  not  so  ?" 

Had  I  foreseen  the  results  of  that  question  1 
should  never  have  asked  it.  Xlie  thunder  pealed  loud- 
er ;  the  flashes  of  light  were  quicker,  and  like  great 
forked  tongues  came  in  at  the  windows,  lighted  up 
the  room  with  a  hideous  glare,  and  went  out  again.  1 
saw  the  old  man's  eyes  hght  up  with  a  maniacal 
flash  as  he  said,  in  a  tone  peculiar  to  insanity  : 

''  Who  dares  insult  me  in  my  own  house  ?  I  never 
knew  that  name.  Away,  away  !  Oh,  Lottie,  Lot- 
tie, Lottie  !  my  peace  died  with  thee.  Poor,  lost 
child  !     Poor,  lost  child  !" 

He  kept  on  in  endless  repetition  of  the  last  three 
words ;  his  voice  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  until  at 
last  he  whispered  them  softly  to  himself,  as  if  they 
were  consoling  to  him.  He  rocked  to  and  fro  on  his 
chair  like  a  mother  soothing  an  infant,  hugging  him- 


THE   STOKM   AND   THE    CURSE.  161 

self  closely,  until,  suddenly  lifting  his  e^^es  again, 
that  wild,  maniacal  fire  shot  into  them  until  they 
looked  like  burning  balls  of  fire  rolling  in  tlie  sockets, 
as  he  said,  in  a  fierce,  denunciatory  voice : 

"  Cursed  !  oh,  cursed  for  ever  he  who  caused 
thee  to  flee  from  me  !  May  God  break  his  heart 
as  he  has  broken  mine  !  May  no  woman  ever  call 
him  husband  and  no  children  rise  up  to  bless  him  ! 

0  God" !  hear  and  grant  my  prayer,  for  vengeance  is 
Thine !" 

The  blood  chilled  in  my  veins  as  he  hissed  the 
fierce  curse  through  liis  teeth.  His  face  flushed 
crimson  as  he  spoke,  and  the  surcharged  veins  on  his 
forehead  seemed  filled  to  bursting.  My  heart  stood 
still  waiting.    I  listened  for  a  revelation  ;  none  came. 

1  fell  upon  my  knees  before  him,  that  fierce,  angry 
old  man,  and  a  groan  escaped  me  as  I  asked  : 

"  The  name  of  her  destroyer.  Tell  me,  oh,  tell 
me  this,  and  I  am  satisfied " 

I  implored,  I  pleaded  with  him ;  he  heeded  me 
Tiot.  Ignoring  my  presence,  he  went  on  muttering 
occasional  fearful  oaths  and  curses  as  before.  I  was 
still  kneeling  in  my  prostrate  agony  when  I  heard 
a  deep,  suppressed  groan  behind  me.  I  arose  and 
looked  back ;  and  there  stood  a  shadow — a  mute,  suf- 
fering, mortal  shadow — great  drops  of  perspiration  on 
its  brow,  ghost-like  and  still  on  the  threshold.  It 
spoke  not,  moved  not,  but  stood  as  one  stunned — a 
human  being  petrified  to  stone  ! 


162  THE  STORM  AND  THE   CURSE. 

The  old  man's  eyes  lighted  up  with  a  Satanic  fire, 
and  seemed  to  swell  in  their  sockets  as  he  stretched 
out  his  arm  and  pointed  to  the  figure.  A  curse  died 
unspoken  on  his  lips ;  his  arm  fell  suddenly  to  his 
side  ;  his  head  dropped  upon  his  shoulder — he  was 
dead  !  The  shadow  assumed  shape  and  voice.  It 
was  John  Guilderstring.  But  not  the  John  Guilder- 
string  I  had  once  known.  His  dress  was  careless; 
he  was  much  older.  lie  wiped  the  sweat  from  his 
brow,  and  stood  gazing  sorrowfully  at  me  as  he 
spoke. 

"  O  God  !  this  retribution  is  too  great  to  be  borne  ! 
Martha !  Martha !  Oh,  turn  not  from  me  thus. 
Would  you  curse  me  too?  You,  the  soul  of  my 
soul!" 

I  felt  a  keen  and  two-edged  knife  pressing  on  my 
heart ;  a  great  pity,  a  Christ-like  pity,  for  that  misera- 
ble, suffering  man. 

"  John  Guilderstring,  I  pity  you  and  forgive  you  ; 
but" — (the  tears  came  into  my  eyes,  a  deathly  sick- 
ness seized  me,  I  grasped  a  chair  for  support — I 
could  not  go  on). 

"  That  is  not  all.  The  dream  of  my  later  life  is  not 
then  broken  ;  you  do  not  despise  me  ?"  he  said,  in  a 
hurried  tone  of  despondent  hope.  "  You  do,  then, 
love  me  even  now  ?"  He  opened  his  arms  as  he 
went  on  :  "I  have  sinned,  deeply  sinned  ;  but  as  you 
hope  to  be  forgiven,  so  you  will  forgive  me.  It 
was  done  in  an  evil  hour,  in  the  heat  of  early  man- 


THE   STORM  AND  THE   CURSE.  163 

hood.  I  knew  not  the  baseness,  the  blackness  of 
the  sin.  But  God  knows  that  my  life  has  been  one 
of  penance.  I  have  striven  to  wash  it  out.  I  have 
learned  to  pray.  I  think  Christ  has  forgiven.  Oh, 
Martha  !  Martha !  come  to  me ;  come  to  me  as  my 
wfe,  and  all  these  clouds  will  be  buried  in  the 
eternal  past !" 

Did  my  heart  struggle  within  rne  ?  Was  the  path 
of  duty  a  crooked  one?  I  know  not  now.  My 
fa*ce  burned  with  indignant,  angry  shame  ;  my  soul 
rose  up  like  a  great  Kemesis,  and  I  said,  as  I  point- 
ed to  the  stiffened  corpse  of  old  Christopher : 

"  Look  here,  John  Guilderstring  ;  wash  the  blood 
of  Charlotte  Cleytone  from  your  hands ;  erase  the 
black  dye  of  guilt  from  jowr  soul  which  has  brought 
this  old  man  in  grey  hairs  and  sorrow  to  the  grave, 
and  then  ask  me  to  be  your  wife." 

The  damp  dried  on  his  brow  ;  his  eyes  darkened 
with  pain  and  his  lips  quivered.  I  trembled  with 
remorse  at  the  suff'ering  I  had  caused.  A  feverish 
rush  of  blood  stained  his  forehead  ;  he  coughed,  and 
I  saw  the  blood-red  dye  on  his  handkerchief.  He 
had  ruptured  a  bloodvessel.  I  forget  what  followed 
on  that  eventful  day.  I  only  know  that  the  carriage 
came  at  last  and  I  was  carried  home  sick,  weary,  and 
perplexed. 


164  FOR   EVER   AND   EVERMORE. 


CHAPTEK  XXHl 

For  Ever  and  Evermore — Sick  unto  Death — Jemima  Sweezey — 
A  Philosophic  Lover, 
t 

I  WAS  sitting  in  the  deepening  twilight  alone.  It 
was  the  evening  of  the  day  following  old  Chrisfo- 
pher's  death.     My  father  came  in. 

"  I  have  seen  him  buried." 

"Where?*'  * 

"  Beside  his  erring  daughter." 

"  You  know  it,  then  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Who  told  you  ?" 

"  John  Day  related  what  he  knew.  I  inferred  the 
rest." 

"  Was  he  there  ?" 

''  Who  ?" 

"  John— Mr.  Guilderstring  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  I  never  saw  a  man  so  strangely  af- 
fected." 

Should  I  tell  my  father  all  ?  No ;  it  would  be 
baseness  to  expose  the  sin,  now  that  repentance  was 
dawning  in  the  soul  of  the  transgressor.  If  by  any 
means  we  master  the  secret  of  another's  life,  let  us 
bury  it  deep  in  our  own  hearts  and  roll  the  stone  of 


-FOR  EVER   AND   EVERMORE.  165 

eternal  silence  against  the  rocky  door,  never  to  be 
opened  until  the  light  of  eternity's  dawn  shall  resur- 
rect all  the  hidden  and  secret  things  of  hunum 
hearts.  I  had  told  no  one,  and  I  should  never 
divulge  it  while  he  lived.  I  was  suffering,  how 
deeply  the  Reader  of  hearts  only  knows.  My  father 
noticed  it. 

"  You  look  ill." 

^'Dol?" 

"  Something  troubles  you.  Give  me  your  con- 
fidence." 

"  Father !  N'o,  no,  father  ;  not  to  you  ;  only  to 
God." 

I  must  have  spoken  very  firmly  and  decidedly,  for 
my  father  did  not  importune  me ;  he  only  sat  still  a 
few  moments  in  deeper  thought,  and  then  left  the 
room.  I  sat  there  musing  on  the  strange  events  of 
the  last  few  days.  I  must  have  been  ill,  but  I  was 
not  sensible  of  it.  I  felt  no  illness  but  the  great 
throbl)iiig  ache  at  my  heart;  that  was  all.  Is  there 
no  physician  that  can  pour  balm  on  a  bruised  heart? 
Mine  was  bruised  almost  to  breaking.  I  was  inter- 
rupted. Mrs.  Whipple  came  into  the  room  singing 
a  hymn.  She  stopped  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  a 
line  as  she  saw  me. 

''  You  are  wanted." 

"  Who  wants  me  ?"  • 

"  Mr.  Guilderstring  is  asking  for  you." 

"  Where  is  he  ?" 


166  FOR   EVER   AND    EVERMORE. 

"  In  the  parlor." 

"  I'll  come  presently." 

She  went  out.  I  waited,  struggling  with  myself 
for  calmness.  I  fought  bravely,  for  I  think  I  was 
almost  emotionless  when  I  went  out  of  my  room  to 
go  below  and  meet  him.  I  heard  some  one  pacing 
the  floor  rapidly ;  it  was  his  step.  I  pushed  open 
the  door,  and  we  met  face  to  face.  He  stood  look- 
ing at  me  a  moment  speechless.  He  was  very 
white.  I  might  have  trembled  beneath  his  piercing 
eye,  for  he  was  a  man  to  fear. 

"  You  have  come,  then.  I  thought  you  would 
not." 

"  I  am  here  because  you  sent  for  me." 

"  Are  we,  then,  to  meet  for  the  last  time  ?  Oh, 
Martha !  Martha !  you  are  killing  me,"  and  the 
strong  man  sat  down  and  sobbed  in  my  presence. 
A  calm  and  holy  resolve  filled  me ;  my  soul  bade 
my  lips  take  speech. 

"  John  Guilderstring,  do  not  forget  your  man- 
hood ;  rise  up  like  a  true  man,  go  out  into  the  world 
and  struggle  with  your  destiny,  remembering  what 
you  might  have  been,  and  that,  but  for  your  one 
error,.  I  might  have   learned — "  (I  stopped   short). 

"  Tou  might  have  learned  to  love  me.  Don't  stop. 
Finish  it,  I  implore  you  ;  and  with  the  help  of  God 
I'll  make  it  my  watchword,»and  go  out  to  wrestle 
alone  with  myself  and  the  world.  Let  me  hear  it 
.from  your  own  lips." 


FOR   EVER   AND    EVERMORE.  167 

My  face  felt  hot  as  I  said  :  "  I  might  have  learned 
to  love  joii." 

Oh,  the  mighty  struggle  even  this  confession  cost 
me;  but  thank  God  I  said  it,  for  a  strange,  sweet 
smile  shot  out  of  his  eyes,  and  he  knelt  before  me, 
catching  my  hand  in  his.  He  held  it  tight  in  his 
strong  grasp.  I  could  not  have  withdrawn  it  if  I 
would.     Looking  into  my  eyes,  he  said  : 

"  Is  there  no  hope  for  the  future  ?  Is  it  for  ever 
and  ever?" 

"  Between  us  there  is  a  great  gulf  ^xed  for  ever 
in  this  world." 

"Shall  another  take  my  place?  Shall  another 
claim  what  I  have  lost  ?" 

I  felt  his  grasp  tighten,  and^a  groan  escaped  him. 
I  leaned  forward  and  whispered  in  his  ear  but  one 
word  :  "  ^N'ever  !" 

He  carried  my  hand  to  his  lips,  and  I  felt 
it  wet  with  his  tears  as  he  pressed  it  there,  and 
said :  »        . 

"  Mine  in  eternity  !" 

He  rose  up,  pressed  his  hand  tightly  across  his 
eyes,  and  it  was  over.  We  spoke  as  friends.  "  I 
leave  you  to-night.  Miss  Klopenstene." 

How  calmly  he  spoke  it,  he  who  a  moment  ago 
was  a  suppliant  at  my  feet.  E'ot  more  calm  than 
was  my  answer : 

"  God  be  with  you,  Mr.  Guilderstring." 

His  horse  was  in  waiting.     Did  he  kiss  my  fore- 


168  FOR   EVER   AND    EVERMORE. 

head?  I  did  not  know.  I  only  felt  a  great  tumult 
in  my  heart.  I  only  knew  that  he  was  going.  I 
heard  his  quick  steps  on  the  walk.  I  looked  out  of 
the  window  and  saw  him  mount,  the  same  man  that  I 
had  seen  sitting  out  there  in  the  rain  years  ago  ;  it 
seemed  a  long  ago  to  me.  The  night  wind  swept 
through  his  hair;  the  glare  from  the  window  fell 
on  his  pale  face,  and  he  was  gone — gone  out  into  the 
darkness  from  me  for  ever  and  evermore.  .  .  . 
I  uttered  a  faint  cry  ;  a  death-like  sickness  came  over 
me,  and  all  was  a  blank 

.  .  .  .  .  I  awoke  to  find  myself  an  invalid, 
and  gentle  Annie  Glyde  standing  by  my  bedside 
like  a  faithful  watcher,  her  eyes  fixed  eagerly  on 
mine.  I  could  scarcely  see  distinctly  in  the  curtain- 
ed light,  but  my  soul  would  know  that  little  frail 
angel  even  in  tlie  valley  of  the  shadow. 

"  Annie,  my  sister,  is  it  you  ?" 

Tears  of  joy  fell  out  of  her  eyes  down  on  the 
counterpane  as  §he  said  : 

"I  am  so  glad  you  are  yourself  again." 

"  Why,  what's  tlie  matter  ?  How  long  have  I 
been  sick  ?" 

"Three  long,  long,  weary  weeks." 

"  Don't  sigh,  for  they  have  been  short  weeks  to 
me.  It  seems  only  like  a  dream  of  a  night ;  that  is 
all." 

"Then  you  are  indeed  better?" 

"  Yes." 


FOR  EVER  AND   EVERMORE.  169 

I  made  an  attempt  to  rise,  but  it  was  now  that  I 
felt  my  strength  had  indeed  deserted  me.  I  was 
too  weak  to  raise  even  my  head. 

"  What  a  good  patient  nurse  you  have  been  to 
watch  over  me  so  long." 

She  smiled,  as  she  said :  "  Me !  Why  I  have 
been  banished  from  your  room  for  days  together  by 
Dr.  Woodruff  and  Jemima  Sweezey,  and  you  know 
that  the  edicts  of  the  latter  are  like  the  laws  of  the 
Medes  and  Persians.  It  was  only  for  a  little  while 
to-day  that  I  persuaded  her  to  allow  me  to  assume 
her  post  at  your  side.  But  I  cannot  blame  her,  since 
she  has  brought  you  to  life  again.  She  is  a  good 
nurse,  and  I  almost  love  her  for  her  kindness  to 
you.  I  don't  believe  she  ever  goes  to  sleep  ;  she 
watches  you  as  a  cat  would  a  mouse  that  it  is  ex- 
pecting to  return  to  life  again  every  minute ;  but 
here  she  comes.  I  know  her  step.  'Now  for  a 
scolding." 

There  was  indeed  a  storm  brewing  in  the  good 
matron's  face  as  she  came  sailing  into  the  room. 
But  her  Quaker  cap,  with  its  mountainous  crown 
and  extensive  frilled  border,  reminded  me  more  of 
the  snowy  white  wings  of  a  good  spirit  than  any- 
thing to  laugh  at,  and  I  was  blessing  her  in  my  heart 
all  the  time  that  she  was  gliding  over  towards  the 
bed  with  her  noiseless  step.  She  spoke  in  rather  a 
severe  tone. 

"  Annie,  what  is  thee  doing  ?  I  heard  thee  talking, 
8 


170  FOR   EVER   AND    EVERMORE. 

and  I  came  to  banish  tliee  from  tlie  room.  Tliee  may 
disobey  me,  but  never  infringe  on  the  doctor's  orders; 
he  prescribed  perfect  silence." 

"  I  am  better  now,"  I  said,  "  and  don't  scold 
Annie." 

"  Scold  her  !  My  child,  no  one  ever  heard  Jemima 
Sweezey  scold  ;  bless  thy  heart,  I  am  glad  to  see 
thee  looking  rational-like  again."  Turning  again  to 
Annie  Glyde,  she  said  in  a  mild  tone  :  "  Go,  go, 
Annie.  Thee  was  not  calculated  for  the  sick-room  ; 
thee  lacks  the  faculty." 

I  was  too  weak  to  thank  this  good  woman  then  for 
her  disinterested  kindness  to  me,  but  she  is  enshrined 
in  my  heart  as  a  true  type  of  excellence.  I  would 
lie  for  hours  during  my  convalescence  and  watch  her 
needles  as  they  flew  in  swift  motion,  weaving  the 
grey  yarn  into  form,  and  I  wondered  whether  her 
life  was  as  devoid  of  beauty  as  her  dress,  and 
whether  she  wove  no  brighter  thread  in  warp  and 
woof  at  the  loom  of  life.  Had  she  ever. loved  ? 
Had  no  romance  ever  stolen  into  her  heart,  no 
passion  ever  ruffled  her  smooth,  calm  face?  Was 
she  ever  angrv  ?  It  is  a  very  grey  and  hard  rock 
on  which  no  flower  will  take  root  and  grow.  Was 
there  not  an  earthly  crevice  in  the  flint  of  that 
woman's  heart  ?  I  think  there  must  have  been,  and 
warm  affections  took  root  there,  too.  It  might  have 
been  that  nothing  but  rue  and  wormwood  would 
have  thriven  there ;  but  she  was  charitable.     The 


FOR  EVER  AND   EVERMORE.  ■       171 

love  of  charity  was  the  mainspring  of  her  character, 
and  this  charity  was  what  drew  her  to  me  ;  her  soft 
touch  on  my  forehead,  her  smooth,  cooling  stroke  on 
my  pillow,  her  patience  with  my  fault-finding,  won 
my  love  and  admiration.  We  all  have  friends  when 
we  are  in  the  flush  of  health  and  in  the  noontide 
of  prosperity  ;  but,  oh,  the  infinite  love  that  springs 
up  for  those  who  watch  over  our  couches  of  pain 
and  press  our  hands  when  the  storm  of  adversity 
sweeps  over  the  soul ! 

I  never  again  laughed  at  the  odd  figure  cut  by  the 
Sweezey  sisters  in  society.  To  me  they  were  minis- 
tering angels  in  disguise.  I  could  see  nothing  outre 
in  the  eternal  drab  of  their  garments  ;  my  eye  pene- 
trated beyond  the  veil ;  I  looked  through  into  the 
hearts  that  pulsed  beneath,  and  I  saw  nothing  but 
the  noble,  self-sacrificing  woman.  What  Mr.  Jamie- 
son  once  uttered  as  a  joke  was  truly  the  most 
applicable  and  sensible  thing  I  ever  heard  him  say. 
They  were  indeed  three  Graces,  not  in  form  or  dress, 
but  in  heart  three  Christian  Graces.  How  softly  on 
my  ear  fell  the  mellow,  musical  thee  and  thou  of 
Jemima  Sweezey  !  All  nurses  ought  to  use  the  plain 
language,  for  it  must  have  been  the  language  of 
Eden,  and  it  was  a  golden  thread  in  this  woman's 
•  discourse.  There  is  one  other  who  deserves  more 
than  a  passing  meed  of  praise;  it  was  Dr.  Woodruff. 
Poor  man,  what  could  have  so  misled  him  as  to  make 
me  wound  him  so  sorely  ?     He  was  indefatigable  in 


172  FOR   EVER  AND   EVERMORE. 

his  attentions,  and  perliaps  called  oftener  than  my 
situation  as  his  patient  warranted  ;  and  when  I  was 
better,  and  even  out  of  danger,  there  was  no  suspen- 
sion in  the  frequency  of  his  visits.  Oh,  could  I  only 
have  foreseen  the  results  then.  He  brought  me 
flowers,  rare  flowers,  hot-house  roses  and  Japonicas, 
things  that  were  scarce  at  such  a  season.  lie  brought 
me  new  books,  and  sometimes  pointed  out  particular 
passages  for  me  to  read.  I  saw  no  object  in  this, 
and  indeed  I  thonglit  he  only  brought  them  because 
it  was  a  pleasure  to  see  a  patient  enjoy  such  things. 
I  might  have  had  a  daughterly  aftection  for  him  ; 
but  weeks  sped  away  and  I  was  almost  well  again. 
I  think  time  was  alleviating  the  sickness  of  my  heart 
too.     I  was  cheerful. 

"Oh,  how  strange  you  look  without  your  hair," 
said  Annie  Glyde ;  and  it  was  a  curious  reflection 
in  the  mirror.  How  difi'erent  from  that  shadow  I 
had  seen  at  Mrs.  Osgood's,  when  my  locks  were  like 
Sampson's!  Now  they  were  short  and  curling  over 
my  head  like  a  boy's,  they  having  been  shorn  during 
my  illness.  "  Do  you  believe  it  ?"  continued  Annie 
Glyde.  "  I  know  that  you  have  got  a  new  lover. 
Don't  you  know  that  you  once  told  me  you  had  never 
been  so  fortunate  ?  But  you  have  a  real  live  one 
now.  Yes,  indeed,  for  Dr.  Woodruff  took  one  of 
your  long,  wavy  tresses  away  with  him.  He  was 
very  sly  and  lover-like  about  it,  though  he  thought 
he  was  alone  ;  but  I  saw  him  fold  the  paper  and  put 


FOR  EVER  AND   EVERMORE.  173 

it  into  his  breast-pocket.  'Now,  what  do  you  think 
of  that?" 

This  communication  pained  me  a  great  deal ;  but, 
after  due  reflection,  I  thought  it  best  to  await  the 
results.  They  soon  followed,  for  at  my  father's  invi- 
tation, and  since  John  Guilderstring's  departure,  I 
think  he  was  inclined  to  favor  the  Doctor's  suit.  He 
was  invited  to  the  house  one  day  not  long  after  Annie 
Glyde's  revelation  to  me  of  his  lover-like  demonstra- 
tions. His  visits  had  slackened  off  of  late,  and 
I  had  hoped  that  he  had  given  me  up  ;  but  no, 
the  old  gentleman  was  too  young  and  energetic  not 
to  make  a  persevering  suit,  and  after  many  attempts 
to  meet  me  alone,  we  at  last  met  accidentally  in  the 
garden.  He  was  too  much  a  man  of  the  world  to 
be  at  all  embarrassed  at  our  meeting  or  to  pay  the 
slightest  regard  to  my  silence.  I  tried  in  vain  to 
show  him  that  I  knew  what  was  about  to  follow. 
He  talked  of  many  things  foreign  to  the  subject 
altogether,  to  which  I  answered  in  monosyllables. 
Finally,  he  plucked  a  rose  from  the  path-side.  I 
saw  him  tear  the  leaves  one  by  one  out  of  its  heart, 
and  then  looking  up  at  me,  he  spoke : 

"  Miss  Martha,  I  am  old,  to  be  sure,  for  so  young 
a  wife  ;  but  if  you'll  come  and  preside  at  my  table, 
I'll  grow  younger.     I  know  I  shall." 

What  could  I  say  ?  I  felt  mortified,  but  duty 
came  to  my  aid. 

''  Dr.  Woodruff,  I  have  too  much  respect  for  you 


174  FOR   EVER   .^'D   EVERMORE. 

to  treat  you  rudely  and  your  proposal  slightly  ;  but 
I  shall  never  marry.  I  am  wedded  to  a  single  life. 
I  shall  live  an  old  maid." 

He  said  not  another  word  ;  he  has  often  visited 
me  since,  and  I  respect  him,  but  I  never  saw  him 
look  so  quizzical  and  merry  as  he  did  when  we  part- 
ed, and  he  rode  away  in  his  little  gig  on  that  after- 
noon when  I  refused  him.     He  was  a  philosopher. 


THE   DIARY  AND   LETTERS.  175 


CHAPTER  XXIY. 

The  Diary  and  Letters — Charlotte  Cleytone's  Fall — John  Guil- 
derstring's  Sin — Annie  Glyde's  Wedding. 

Months  rolled  away.  Autumn  had  slipped  off 
its  shiniug  garments  of  gold  and  crimson  into  the 
sere  nakedness  of  winter.  The  snows  had  fallen  and 
melted  again  ;  the  dull,  leaden  clouds  had  rolled 
away  ;  the  skeletonized  trees  had  pulsed  with  a  new 
vigor  and  budded  out  in  resurrected  beauty.  It 
was  spring,  the  birth-season  of  young  hopes  and 
delightful  fancies,  the  threshold  of  the  year  across 
which  we  look  into  the  far  future  and  build  air- 
castles  along  the  track  of  life.  I  had  thrown  off  the 
gloom  of  old  memories,  and  was  strong  again  in  the 
possession  of  health  and  renewed  energy.  I  again 
went  forth  amid  the  old  Pines  to  wander  with  some 
of  the  pleasure  with  which  I  had  haunted  them 
when  a  girl.  And  my  two  graves,  were  they  not 
mine  ;  were  they  not  the  graves  of  my  life,  my 
love  ?  I  sometimes  stood  over  them,  but  I  was  calm, 
strangely  calm,  in  my  contemplation. 

Tlie  old  tenement-house,  with  its  little  garden  of 
stunted  shrubs  and  scattered  flowers,  had  stood 
untouched  since  old  Christopher's  death.     Not  even 


176  THE   DIARY   AND   LETTERS. 

its  furniture  had  been  removed  ;  but  now  that  Jolin 
Day  had  taken  unto  himself  a  wife  and  desired  to 
become  its  tenant,  it  became  necessary  to  renovate 
it  and  prepare  for  the  new  occupant.  It  was  a  duty 
which  my  father  took  upon  himself  to  superintend, 
and  at  my  request  he  permitted  me  to  accompany 
him. 

The  dust  had  gathered  thickly  on  the  scattered 
furniture,  the  windows  were  encrusted  with  mud, 
and  the  spider  had  pitched  his  gossamer  tent  on  tlie 
walls.  The  principal  apartment  wore  much  the 
same  aspect  that  it  did  on  that  memorable  morning 
of  old  Christopher's  death.  His  empty  chair  stood 
almost  in  the  same  position,  and  only  the  cobwebs 
that  had  gathered  on  the  rounds  told  how  long  its 
occupant  had  been  absent.  We  went  into  an  adjoin- 
ing room  ;  here  was  a  narrow  bed,  a  chair,  and  a 
small  table,  with  a  partially  consumed  tallow  candle 
as  its  onlv  ornament.  In  one  corner  stood  a  lar^e 
trunk  covered  Avith  nntanned  skin,  and  closely 
studded  with  brass-headed  nails;  it  was  unlocked, 
and  my  father  opened  it.  Its  contents  were  limited. 
There  was  nothing  at  all  in  it  but  a  small  bundle  of 
letters  and  an  unfinished  diary.  The  letters  were 
addressed  in  a  female  hand  to  "  Charles  Cleytone, 

Esq.,  II City ;"  and  on  comparison,  I  found  that 

the  handwriting  corresponded  with  that  of  the  diary. 
On  the  fly-leaf  of  the  latter  was  written  in  a  neat, 
feminine  hand,  "  Charlotte  Cleytone  ;"  there  was  a 


THE   DIARY  AND   LETTERS.  177 

date,  and  that  was  all.  My  heart  burned  within  me 
as  I  thought  of  what  might  be  its  contents.  I  took 
them  home.  I  felt  that  they  were  mine — my  legacy. 
This  girl,  who  had  been  so  intimately  connected  with 
me  and  my  life,  had  I  not  a  right  to  know  something 
of  her  past  ? 

Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  read  there  while  the  tears 
flowed  in  great  blots  down  on  the  pages?  The 
heart-burnings,  the  unwise  love,  the  repentance,  the 
sorrow,  the  poverty,  the  misery,  and  beggary  of 
the  poor  outcast?  Then  the  needle,  a  woman's  re- 
fuge in  poverty  ;  nights  of  toil ;  a  dying  babe,  the 
fruit  of  illicit  love ;  sickness  ;  the  county  poor-house  ; 
when  death,  like  a  spirit  of  mercy,  took  her  home. 

It  was  many  days  before  I  was  able  to  break  the 
seal  of  the  packet  of  letters  after  reading  of  the  cruel 
fate  of  poor  Charlotte.  Many  of  them  were  sealed  ; 
they  had  evidently  never  been  opened  by  the  father,  to 
wlijom  they  were  addressed.  Oh,  the  record  of  these 
pages  was  enough  to  melt  a  heart  of  stone.  Yet  there 
was  no  reproach  of  that  father  who  had  shut  her  out  of 
his  heart — his  heart  of  wounded  pride — because  of  her 
sin.  She  reproached  only  herself,  and  drew  sunny 
pictures  of  what  their  past  life  had  been ;  the  pleasant 
home  where  she  was  the  only  child — beautiful,  vir- 
tuous, and  the  light  of  the  household  ;  how  she  used 
to  listen  for  her  father's  step  on  the  walk  at  night 
when  he  came  home  from  labor,  and  hang  around 
his  Deck  for  his  evening  benediction — a  kiss;    of 

8* 


178  THE   DIARY  AND   LETTERS. 

"^'liat  miglit  have  been,  had  not  the  serpent  of  tempta- 
tion entered  the  liouseliold,  and  slie  loved  not  too 
well  but  unwisely.  Alas  !  shall  I  lift  the  curtain 
from  tlie  scene  that  followed,  so  dark  in  contrast 
Avith  this  ?  Nay  !  God  forbid.  lie  alone  can  ever 
know  of  the  horror  to  which  the  poor,  ruined,  de- 
luded creature  awoke.  Her  father  drove  her  from 
his  door.  Her  betrayer  fled,  and  left  her  to  her 
fate.  No  answer  came  to  her  letters,  written  in  pain 
and  sorrow,  and  blotted  all  over  with  tears  of 
anffuish.  She  went  out  alone  to  linsrer  a  little  while 
in  her  misery  and  die. 

And  now  let  me  draw  an  eternal  veil  of  silence 
over  the  story  of  this  poor  girl's  misfortune  ;  it  is 
enough  that  you  see  some  of  the  results  of  John 
Guilderstring's  Sin.  She  was  poor  and  pretty  ;  he 
was  rich  and  proud.  Her  punishment  (O  God,  was  it 
just  ?)  was  infamy,  suffering,  ignominy,  death  !  His 
punishment — O  people,  O  world—was  his  punish- 
ment just  and  righteous?  He  went  out  to  mingle 
ao-ain  with  virtue  and  beauty.  No  blot  on  his  escut- 
cheon, no  stain  on  his  character,  no  tongue  of  slander 
to  hiss  the  damnable  echo  of  guilt  into  his  ear. 
ghe  ! — she  hid  her  face  for  very  shame  ;  and  you, 
O  cruel  world — you,  while  you  looked  leniently 
on  him,  the  strong  man,  shut  the  weaker,  frailer 
creature,  the  erring  girl,  out  of  your  great  heart,  and 
stamped  her  with  the  scarlet  letter  of  shame  foi 
ever  !     Was  this  just,  think  you  ? 


THE   DIARY   AND   LETTERS.  179 

Oh,  woman !  it  rests  with  thee  to  correct  this 
flagrant  evil  of  society.  Men  "  sow  their  wild 
oats"  sometimes  in  youth,  and  a  lenient  eye  glosses 
it  over  with  the  hypocritical  phrase  :  "  He'll  reform, 
and  make  a  good  man  yet."  Will  this  Satanic 
excuse  restore  the  ruin  that  men  often  bring  into 
happy  homes  and  quiet  firesides  ?  Let  every  true 
woman  shun  the  man  that  has  ever — no  matter  how 
early  in  life — so  far  forgotten  himself,  his  God,  and 
the  respect  due  her  sex,  as  to  commit  so  enormous  a 
sin.  Is  such  a  man  fit  to  take  thy  pure,  unsullied 
hand,  and  vow  at  God's  holy  altar  to  walk  with  thee 
upriglitly  throughout  life  and  eternity?  Be  still, 
and  let  thine  heart  answer  thee. 

But  I  must  resume  the  thread  of  my  story.  I  am 
so  old-fashioned  as  to  be  in  favor  of  long  courtships. 
A  man  should  never  link  his  fate  with  any  woman 
until  he  has  thoroughly  made  himself  master  of  her 
character,  her  little  whims,  her  moods,  her  eccen- 
tricities, and  learned  how  to  govern  her  and  his 
temper.  For  these  things  will  all  crop  out  luxu- 
riantly after  marriage,  and  then  it  is  too  late,  for 
men  seldom  have  the  patience  with  the  wife  that 
they  have  with  the  maid.  They  suddenly  learn 
to  their  mortification  that  they  are  not  congenial 
after  all ;  that  the  cheerful  smile  and  winning  dis- 
position of  the  maid  were  worn  like  a  holiday  dress ; 
they  had  not  pierced  the  fretful  humor  and  the 
melancholy  mood  that  constitute  the  homely  garb  of 


180  THE   DIARY   AND   LETTERS. 

every-daj  life — the  unromantic  realities  that  rise  np 
to  meet  them  at  every  turn  in  connubial  lite.  There- 
fore I  was  pleased  that  Captain  Courtenay's  court- 
ship had  been  one  of  "  sweetness  long  drawn  out." 
I  think  he  knew  the  disposition  of  the  woman  he  was 
about  to  marry.  A  long  courtship  is  the  surest  test 
of  a  man's  enduring  love  for  a  woman  ;  and  I  did 
not  learn  until  later  how  unfathomable  and  sublime 
was  that  man's  love  for  my  sweet  Annie  Glyde. 
That  she  loved  him  I  know.  He  was  her  idol.  She 
worshipped  him  as  few  people  worship  God.  He 
was  her  strong  tower.  Perhaps  she  sinned  in  loving 
too  much  ;  she  fled  to  him  like  a  weary  bird  from 
the  storm,  seekino*  shelter  in  the  cleft  of  a  o-reat  rock. 

Jo  ~ 

It  is  better  to  love  too  much  than  too  little.  I  was 
glad  that  her  wedding-day  was  fixed ;  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  me  to  watch  her  childlike  delight  in  the 
preparations  that  were  made  for  the  event.  Her 
only  relative,  her  aunt,  the  same  woman  that  had 
deposited  her  at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Osgood's  semi- 
nary on  that  autumn  morning  when  my  father  left 
me  there  alone,  was  staying  with  us  at  Oak  Side. 
She  was  a  worldly-minded  woman,  and  took  much 
pleasure  in  the  thought  that  this  burden  was  about 
to  be  taken  from  her  and  given  into  the  keeping  of 
so  wealthy  a  husband.  Alas  !  for  her  hard  heart. 
Oh,  that  the  burden  were  mine  ;  that  I  could  have 
taken  her  for  ever  into  my  arms  and  carried  her 
through  life.     A  hundred  times  had  I  wished  that 


THE   DIARY  AND  LETTERS.  181 

God  had  given  her  to  me  as  my  own  sister.  How  I 
should  have  cherished  her  !  but  perhaps  I  should 
have  loved  her  with  a  love  too  near  that  which  is 
due  alone  to  one — God. 


182  MARRIAGE  AND   DEATH. 


CHAPTEE  XXY. 

The  Doubting    Bride — An    Accidental    Wound — The     Walking 
Dreamer — Marriage  and  Death — Alone. 

It  was  the  night  prior  to  tlie  wedding-day.  Annie 
Glyde  and  I  sat  alone  together  in  a  chamber.  I  was 
not  a  little  downcast  at  the  thought  that  this  would 
be  our  last  meeting  before  she  would  become  a  part 
of  that  one  that  marriage  makes  of  twain.  She 
looked  sadly  up  at  me  as  she  said : 

"  I  am  so  sorry  to  leave  you.  Do  you  think  that 
he  will  always  love  me  as  he  does  now  ?" 

"  I  think  that  he  will,"  I  answered  solemnly. 

"But  he  does  not  know  what  a  childish  thing  I 
am ;  and  to  be  his  wife — oh,  Martha,  I'm  afraid.'* 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

"  Afraid  that  I  shall  not  suit  him  ;  that  he  will 
tire  of  me;  and  then,  oh  then,  I  should  die  if  he 
ceased  to  love  me." 

"  Cease  to  love  you,  child  !  Why,  he  would  die 
for  you." 

"  But  will  it  always  be  so?"  she  asked,  with  sor- 
row in  her  tone.  "  Will  he  always  humor  me  as  he 
does  now  ?  If  he  should  cross  me  too  much,  I  should 
be  very  unhappy  and  want  to  come  back  to  you." 


MARRIAGE  AND   DEATH.  183 

I  smiled  at  her  cliildish  doubts  and  perplexities ; 
and,  like  an  April  sky,  the  clouds  fell  from  her 
face,  the  sunshine  burst  out  in  her  eyes,  and  her 
silvery  laughter  proved  how  transient  and  evanes- 
cent was  her  doubt. 

"5ut  how  strange  it  is  that  poor  little  trifling  me 
should  be  the  first  to  go;  that  the  pebble  should 
be  picked  up  while  the  glittering,  lustrous  diamond 
is  passed  unheeded  by.  Do  you  know  I  have  often 
thought  that  you  would  make  Captain  Courtenay  the 
best  wife  after  all  V 

"  Why  ?"  I  asked,  amused  at  her  innocent  manner 
of  speaking  about  her  own  thoughts. 

"  Because  you  are  just  such  a  woman  as  I  have 
heard  him  talk  about  so  much.  You  are  so  noble  and 
womanly.  I  wish  I  were  a  man  and  single,  and  your 
hand  would  soon  wear  a  ring,  I  know.  How^  strange  it 
is  that  you  have  never  married!"  she  added,  abruptly. 

'•Why  is  it  strange?"  I  asked,  with  a  pain  at  my 
heart. 

"  Because  you  would  make  such  a  good  wife  ;  and, 
indeed,  I  once  thought  and  hoped  that  you  and  Mr. 
Golden " 

"Stop!  stop!"  I  cried,  passionately.  "You  are 
hurting  me." 

"  What  have  I  done  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  pitiful  tone. 

"  E'othing.  It  is  over  now.  Only  never  speak 
of  that  man  to  me  again.  I  shall  never  marry.  I 
shall  live  an  old  maid." 


184  MARRIAGE   AND   DEATH. 

I  was  silent  for  some  time  witli  my  thoughts,  but 
she  was  soon  on  the  qiii-vive.  Her  bridal  outfit  was 
spread  on  the  bed,  and  snatching  up  the  veil,  she 
arranged  it  on  my  brow.  She  knew  not  that  this 
act  was  as  painful  to  me  as  her  thoughtless  words. 

"  What  a  beautiful  bride  you  would  make!''  she 
said,  as  she  drew  back  and  surveyed  me. 

Alas  !  how  could  I  but  revert  to  the  "  might  have 
been."  That  I  never  should  wear  it  as  a  bride  now  I 
was  certain.  I  know  that  the  hot  tears  fell  thick 
and  fast  from  my  eyes  as  I  folded  her  to  my  bosom 
that  night  before  we  parted.  Our  intimate  sister- 
hood was  no  longer  to  remain  unbroken  ;  another 
was  to  intrude  upon  it,  and  take  her  away  from  me 
for  ever.  I  thought  that  her  busy  and  excited  brain 
would  not  allow  her  to  sleep  much  that  night,  and  I 
determined  to  sit  up  and.  watch  over  her.  I  drew  a 
great  comfortable  rocking-chair  out  from  one  corner 
of  the  room  and  ensconced  myself  with  it  at  the 
bedside.  She  placed  her  soft  little  hand  in  mine, 
and  even  while  I  watched  her  sweet  face,  with  its 
flitting  smiles,  the  fringed  lashes  began  to  droop  on 
her  cheeks,  and  at  last  the  snowy  lids  hid  the  beauty 
of  her  eyes ;  she  was  asleep.  I  sat  for  several 
hours  thus,  strange  thoughts  occupying  my  mind, 
and  at  last  fell  into  a  dreamy  sleep.  1  was  dream- 
in  o-  an  indistinct  sort  of  dream.  I  must  have  been 
half  awake,  I  think,  when  the  consciousness  of  a 
moving  presence  in  the  room  awoke  me.     The  light 


MARRIAGE  AND  DEATH.  185 

was  burning  dimly  and  low  as  I  had  left  it,  but  I 
missed  the  little  hand  from  mine.  I  looked  over 
towards  the  mirror,  and  there  stood  Annie  Glyde 
like  a  sleeping  pantomime.  She  had  placed  her 
bridal  veil  on  her  brow  and  bent  her  arm  on  the 
table  which  supported  her  elbow.  Her  head  was 
pressed  in  her  -  hand,  and  the  tears  were  rolling 
slowly  one  by  one  from  her  eyes.  I  spoke  to  her : 
"  Annie !  Annie !"  but  she  made  no  answer.  I 
knew  that  the  old  spell  was  upon  her,  and  gently 
leading  her  back  to  bed  again,  I  awoke  her  from 
her  somnambulistic  stupor.  An  intellectual  light 
dawned  slowly  in  the  glazed  and  stony  eyes,  and  she 
started  as  she  recognised  me.  ^ 

"  Mattie,  is  it  you  ?  How  glad  I  am  that  you 
awoke  me.  I  had  such  a  strange  and  vivid  dream. 
Mattie,  do  you  believe  in  dreams  ?" 

"  What  an  odd  question  !  If  we  were  to  believe  in 
dreams,  they  would  prophesy  some  very  strange 
things  sometimes.  Of  course  1  do  not.  Why  do 
you  ask  it  ?" 

"  Because  I  had  such  a  peculiar  one  just  now.  I 
thought  that  I  had  been  married  a  year  to  Harry, 
and  that  somehow  or  other  I  was  dead,  and  yet  I 
looked  up  at  him  out  of  my  coffin,  and  saw  him 
crying  over  me  ;  and  you  were  there  looking  at  me, 
too,  and  consoling  him.     It  frightens  me." 

She  did  indeed  tremble  as  I  took  both  her  hands 
into  mine  and  chafed  them. 


I 
186  MARRIAGE   AND   DEATH. 

"  Why,  you  are  as  foolish  as  old  Deacon  Mndge 
was  about  thirteen  at  table,  to  be  afraid  of  a  dream. 
You  are  excited,  and  your  imagination  gets  the 
better  of  you  sometimes;  that  is  all.  Come,  now, 
lie  down  and  go  to  sleep." 

"  I  can't  sleep  any  more.     I  know  I  can't.'' 

And  she  did  not ;  the  grey  light  of  dawn  stole  in 
at  the  chaniber  window  before  she  slept.  I  sat  and 
watched  her  ;  she  was  going  out  from  nie  to-day.  I 
was  to  give  her  away — she  whom  I  loved  with  more 
than  a  sister's  love.  Tears  and  prayers  were  all  I 
could  give  her  now.  She  need  never  come  to  my 
roof  for  shelter  or  spring  into  my  arms  as  a  refuge. 
She  was  going  out  with  one  who  was  strong  and 
able  to  shield  her  from  all  evil.  This  satistied  my 
heart  somewhat ;  but  oh,  I  was  not  prepared 
for  the  solemn  oath  that  took  her  away  from 
me  for  ever  and  ever,  sealing  her  as  another's 
henceforth.  Could  she  creep  up  to  him  and  wliis- 
per  with  confidence  in  his  ear  her  little  petty 
griefs,  the  doubts  and  perplexities  that  she  con- 
fided to  me,  and  meet  a  willing  listener,  a  ready 
consoler?  I  feared  not,  and  yet  some  men  possess 
this  tender  tact  that  is  peculiar  to  woman  ;  perhaps 
it  was  his. 

I  remember  the  b^utiful  vision  of  her  angelic 
face  beneath  the  orange  flowers,  framed  in  its  cloudy 
veil ;  the  tremor  of  her  sweet,  low  voice  as  she  gave 
her  scarcely  audible  response ;  the  smile  of  the  bride- 


MARRIAGE   AND  DEATH.  187 

groom  as  he  carried  her  down  the  aisle  of  the  village 
church,  and  out  of  the  door  leaning  on  his  strong  arm. 
I  kissed  her  ;  she  waved  her  handkerchief  from  the 
carriage  window,  and  they  were  gone. 

It  is  strangely  curious  how  in  this  life  the  most 
solemn  events  follow  the  happiest.  To  be  sure,  there 
were  premonitions,  but  I  was  not  prepared  for  it  yet. 
"  Oil,  no  ;  not  yet,  not  yet." 

My  father  ceased  altogether  to  leave  the  house  ; 
next  he  was  confined  to  his  chair  ;  and  linally  to 
his  bed,  from  wdiicli  he  arose  no  more  until  he  went 
out  across  the  threshold  for  ever. 

Again  did  I  learn  how  broad  and  deep  was  the 
heart  of  Jemima  Sweezey  and  her  Quaker  sisters  ; 
they  surely  will  be  rewarded  somewhere  in  God's 
economy ;  if  not  here,  hereafter.  They  were  un- 
ceasing in  acts  of  kindness  to  my  poor  sick,  suffer- 
ing father,  and  cheered  me  out  of  many  a  despon- 
dent mood.  Dr.  Woodrnfi*,  too,  good  man  that  he 
was,  came  as  regularly  and  perhaps  as  often  as 
when  my  own  life  was  endangered.  Dr.  Thornton 
was  again  summoned  to  a  consultation,  but  no 
human  power  could  close  the  open  and  w^aiting 
portal  of  death. 

While  we  stood  about  his  bed,  looking  down  from 
the  brink  of  this  life  into  the  vast,  unfathomable 
depths  of  eternity,  his  spirit  went  out  from  us — the 
clay-cold  tenement  all  that  remained.     I  remember 


188  MAKRIAGE  AND  DEATH. 

the  busy  but  quiet  preparations  for  his  burial ;  how 
they 

"  Trod  about  noiselessly, 
Breathless  and  still, 
He  lieth  so  listlessly, 
Stern  and  so  ehilL" 

I  remember  how  I  stood  weeping  at  the  coffin- 
head  until  jDeacon  Mudge,  with  a  gentle  force, 
pushed  me  away.  I  heard  the  creaking  of  the 
screws,  the  dull,  muffled  sound  of  the  clods  as  they 
fell  on  the  hollow  dwelling.  We  left  him  beyond 
the  village  churchyard's  rusty  hinge,  where  a  few 
months  before  I  had  given  away  my  bride-sister. 
When  I  came  out  from  that  grave  I  felt  the  bitter- 
ness.    I  was  alone. 

"  Alone ! — Xay,  not  alone  with  thee, 
Father;  if  my  Gethsemane 
Be  like  that  where  the  agony  stirred  His  great  soul 
To  drink  the  bitter  cup.     Oh,  school  me  to  control 
And  say  amen." 


ANNIE  GLYDE's  HONEYMOON.  189 


CHAPTEK  XXYI. 

Annie  Glyde's  Honeymoon — My   Cousin   Lucy — Mrs.    Whipple 
finds  a  Lover —  What  True  Love  is. 

Life  at  Oak  Side  settled  down  into  its  old  routine 
again.  But  there  were  two  faces  missing — my  dear 
father's  familiar  step  and  Annie  Glyde's  sweet 
face.  My  good  father  had  willed  all  his  w^ealth 
to  me,  and  I  w^as  indeed  mistress  of  a  goodly  heri- 
tage. John  Day  became  my  man  of  business,  and 
under  his  supervision  everything  prospered  as  it  had 
during  my  father's  lifetime.  But  amid  it  all  I  was 
not  happy.  Was  I  ungrateful  ?  E'o.  But  I  felt  a 
restlessness,  a  desire  to  rise  up  out  of  my  indolence 
and  work.  Was  there  not  a  destiny  of  higher  im- 
port for  me  to  fiiliil  ?  I  felt  there  was,  but  I  could 
only  sit  still  and  wait  for  the  moving  of  the  waters 
of  Providence. 

I  felt  lonely  this  morning,  and  wandered  out  across 
the  fields  to  the  charred  and  blackened  ruins  of  the 
old  house  at  the  Pines.  It  was  an  emblem  perhaps 
of  ray  own  heart,  I  might  have  wept  as  I  stood 
gazing  at  the  dust  and  ashes  scattered  over  the  garden 
walks  ;  but  when  I  returned  to  Oak  Side  a  letter  had 
come  frorn  Annie — Annie  Glyde  no  longer  now.  Its 
first  words  conveyed  the  keenest  sensation  of  delight 


190 

and  satisfaction  to  mj  heart  that  I  have  felt  for  many 
a  day. 

"  My  dear  Sister  : 

"  I  am  so  liappy."  (This  was  enough  ;  I  cared  not 
to  read  any  further.  She  was  happy,  and  I  sat  still 
and  wept  for  joy  over  the  glad  tidings.  After  a  little 
I  read  on.)  "  I  wonder  if  I  am  too  happy.  I  have  learn- 
ed to  love  my  noble  husband  so  much  and  so  strong, 
that  all  doubthas  vanished,  and  I  only  fear  that  some- 
thing unforeseen  will  separate  us.  I  cannot  tell  you 
the  half  that  has  taken  place  since  we  started  on  our 
trip.  It  has  been  nothing  but  a  continual  panorama  of 
dissolving  views,  in  which  I  saw  only  one  delight,  and 
that  w^as  the  consciousness  that  I  was  with  him.  We 
— we  looked  at  everything  together.  Ilis  arm  sup- 
ported me,  and  his  words  assured  me.  I  wonder  if 
our  lives  will  always  be  thus  made  up  of  an  eternal 
honeymoon  ?  I  hear  his  step.  He  is  whistling  for 
me  as  he  would  for  a  bird,  and  I — I  must  fly  away  to 
him,  and  ask  you  to  forgive  this  short  letter.  Dear, 
dear  Mattie — sister — 1  hope  we  will  soon  be  with 
you  again,  and  then  I  can  tell  you  all.  I  am  such 
a  poor  letter-writer.  Good  bye.  He  is  getting 
impatient.  I  must  go  to  him  ;  and  sign  for  the  first 
time  and  to  you,  my  dearest  earthly  friend,  my  new 
name.  How  odd  it  will  sound  to  you. 
"  Your  Sister, 

"  Annie  Coiirtenay.'' 


191 

I  know  she  felt  some  pride  in  writing  that  name 
for  the  first  time  ;  God  bless  her,  and  forgive  me  if  a 
pang,  a  keen,  jealous  pang,  shot  down  into  my  heart 
and  rankled  there  for  a  moment,  while  I  wept  over 
it.  It  was  a  pride  I  should  never  share.  Was  I  to 
blame  for  the  pain  that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  mj 
heart  when  I  thought  of  her  happiness  and  my 
misery  ?    I  don't  know. 

I  felt  lonely  that  night  when  I  thought  of  what  was 
before  me.  I  had  but  two  relatives  near  me — 
my  uncle  and  cousin.     My  uncle  was  a  merchant  in 

H ,  and  my  cousin  Lucy  w^as  his  only  daughter. 

She  was  older  now.  I  remembered  her  girlish  face  as 
I  saw  it  at  my  mother's  funeral ;  for  some  reason  they 
had  never  visited  ns  since.  I  wrote  to  my  uncle, 
begging  him  to  let  me  have  Lucy  ;  she  was  mother- 
less. I  would  be  an  elder  sister  to  her.  Let  her 
come  and  remain  with  me  at  Oak  Side.  I  was  so 
lonely.  I  was  surprised  somewhat  at  his  answer. 
He  was  very  grateful  to  me  for  the  kind  offer,  and 
would  willingly  accept  my  proposal.  So,  in  a  few 
days  Lucy  came,  with  her  brown  curly  head  and 
ripe  cherry  lips.  I  do  not  think  she  was  beautiful, 
but  there  was  a  nameless  grace  about  her  motions,  a 
certain  poise  of  the  coquettish  head,  that  charmed 
'one.  It  was  some  time  before  I  was  able  to  over- 
come her  shyness  and  forjj^  a  just  estimate  of  her 
character ;  but  I  soon  found  that  she  was  warm- 
hearted, confiding,  and   afiPectionate. 


192  ANNIE   GLYDE's  HONEYMOON. 

I  learned  to  love  Cousin  Lucy,  not  as  I  loved  my 
sweet  Annie,  but  with  a  love  that  sprang  from  our 
relationship   and  her  amiable  qualities.      I  was  no 
longer  without  a  companion.     I  taught  her  how  to 
ride,  and,  mounting  our  ponies,  we  would  take  trips 
over   the  country  together,  until  the  carnation  on 
her  cheeks   deepened  into  the  scarlet  flush  result- 
ing from  healthful  exercise.     We  visited  my  Beech- 
dale  farm,  and  inspected  the  innumerable  tribe  of 
cats  belonging   to  the  Sweezey  sisters.     We  went 
into  Jemima's  vegetable  garden,  and  saw  the  pro- 
ducts resulting  from  the  culture  of  her  own  hands. 
We  visited  her  dairy,  her  orchard,  and  her  barns. 
We  went  one  day  to  the  yillage,  the  next  to  Hop- 
kins's Mills.     We  rambled  through  the  Pines  until 
we  looked  niore  like  aboriginal  gipsies  than  civilized 
members  of  Christian  society.     I  enjoyed  it,  and 
Lucy  was  in  her  element.     She  had  never  known 
what  it  was  to  be  free  before.    She  was  like  a  young 
eagle  that  had  been  fastened  up  within  the  bars  of 
her  city  cage,  until  now  she  tasted  the  pure  breath 
of  phj^sical  liberty  for  the  first  time.     Living  alone 
with  her  father,  she  had  grown  prematurely  old  in 
her  habits,  and  did  not  dream  that  youth  was  the 
season  for  sunshine  and  laughter.     But  you  would 
not    have   known  her   now.     She   had  learned   to 
laugh ;  and  so  contagi^is  was  her  musical   voice, 
that   I  was  often  cheered   out  of   my  moods  and 
obliged  to  join  with  her. 


ANNIE   GLYDE's  HONEYMOON.  193 

One  great  source  of  fun  for  lier,  and  an  outlet  for 
her  mischief,  was  the  courtship  that  had  appa- 
rently sprung  up  between  Mrs.  Whipple  and  Mr. 
Jamieson.  Who  would  have  imagined  that  two 
such  opposites  should  be  attracted  by  one  another? 
Marriage  knows  no  rule.  There  are  marriages  of 
convenience  as  well  as  love.  I  think  Mr.  Jamieson's 
was  to  be  one  of  the  former,  his  sole  object  being  to 
obtain  a  good  housekeeper ;  she  was  a  paragon,  and 
his  aim  was  to  rob  me  of  the  services  of  mine. 

Mrs.  Whipple  saw  nothing  in  his  attentions  but 
what  flattered  vanity  taught  her  to  believe  was  due 
to  her  personal  charms.  She  sang  more  frequently 
and  fervently  of  late,  and  I  absolutely  heard  her 
break  forth  into  a  song  one  morning  after  Mr.  Jamie- 
son  had  left.  Lucy  came  in  with  her  face  radiating 
all  over  with  mischief. 

"I  know  he's  been  popping,"  she  said. 

"  Popping  what  ?"  I  asked.     "  Corn  ?" 

*'  Eo,  indeed  ;  the  question — that  thing  so  much 
dreaded  by  timid  men  and  so  welcome  to  silly 
women." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  One  might  think  that  you 
were  old  in  experience." 

"  Didn't  I  see  his  smiling  face  as  he  got  on  his 
horse  ?  And  didn't  Mrs.  Whipple  sing  a  song  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  as  soon  as  she  was  left  alone  ? 
These  are  pretty  sure  indications,  I  guess." 

"  What  did  she  sing  ?     One  of  Watts's  Hymns  ?" 
9 


194:  ANNIE   GLYDE's  HONEYMOON. 

"  Oh,  it  might  have  been  a  liymn-tiine — but  it  was 
Burelj  worded  like  a  love  song.  I  heard  lier  sing 
very  softly  to  herself  this  line : 

"  '  Oh,  false  love  is  fickle,  but  my  love  is  true.' " 

"  I  sincerely  hope  that  it  is  ;  but  I  cannot  bnt 
think  Mr.  Jamieson's  only  motive  to  be  the  securing 
of  a  housekeeper." 

""Well,"  answered  Lucy,  with  some  spirit,  "  what 
is  any  woman  but  a  housekeeper,  after  all  ?  Before 
marriage  she  is  an  angel — sweet,  dear,  love,  duck  ; 
during  the  honeymoon  she  is  a  wife  ;  and  afterwards 
subsides  into  her  natural,  or  at  least  her  usual  posi- 
tion— a  housekeeper."  With  a  sort  of  mock  gravity 
she  went  on  :  "  Love  is  all  nonsense  ;  I  don't  believe 
in  it.  If  an  eligible  man  offered  himself,  if  he 
"were  rich,  handsome,  and  agreeable,  I'd  take  up 
with  him  at  once,  and  leave  love  for  those  who  pro- 
fess sentiment.     I  am  too  matter-of-fact  for  love." 

"Wait  and  see.  Your  time  has  not  come  yet. 
Every  mature  woman,  no  matter  how  rich  or  how 
poor,  how  high  or  how  low,  how  ugly  or  how 
beautiful  she  may  be,  has  seen  the  time  of  love — 
has  passed  through  a  season  of  passion — has  con- 
quered or  been  vanquished — has  an  angel  or  a  grave 
in  her  heart." 

"Why,  cousin,  how  warmly  you  speak.  I  do 
sometimes  think  that  I  have  an  ideal ;  but  it  is  only 
a  creature  of  the  imagination,  which,  if  it  were 


ANNIE  GLYDE'S  HONEYMOON.       195 

embodied  in  corporeal  shape,  I  could  fall  down  and 
worship  with  a  sort  of  admiration,  which,  after  all, 
I  gness  is  love." 

"To  love  is  mncli  more  than  to  admire.  It  is  to 
love  your  own  self  in  the  personality  of  another — 
just  as  you  see  your  own  image  reflected  in  the  iris 
of  another's  eye.  It  is  to  feel  two  pulses  beating  in 
your  own  heart.  It  is  a  separate  second  life,  dis- 
tinct from  breathing  and  volition.   The  angels  love." 

"JSTone  but  the  angels?" 

"  l^one  so  purely  and  divinely." 

Mrs.  Whipple  came  in,  and  Lucy,  who  had  grown 
into  favor  with  that  lady,  asked  her,  serio-comically, 
whether  she  remembered  "  poor,  dear  Jerry  ?"  The 
question  was  so  irrelevant  and  saucy  that  I  could 
not  resist  a  smile,  and  when  Mrs.  Whipple  went  out, 
I  asked  her  why  she  had  done  it  ?  She  might  have 
wounded.  She  looked  roguishly  up  at  me  as  she 
answered : 

"  I  only  sought  to  show  you,  by  an  example,  how 
much  there  is  in  such  nonsensical  stuff  as  love. 
]^ow,  here  is  Mrs.  Whipple,  who  was  always  talk- 
ing and  lamenting  about  her  '  poor,  dear  Jerry,'  has 
suddenly  forgotten  him  altogether  and  taken  up 
with  old  Jamieson.  Bo  you  call  that  love  ?  I  don't 
believe  in  it ;  no,  indeed.  I  shall  never  marry  for 
love." 

"Wait  and  see,"  I  said,  as  I  went  out  of  the 
room. 


196  MY  LITTLE   CHARGE. 


CHAPTER  XXYII. 

A   Family  Secret — ITie  River  of   Death  Flows   between    Two 
Hearts— My  Little   Charge. 

A  YEAR  ago  since  Annie  Glyde  was  married. 
This  is  the  same  month.  It  was  just  when  tlie 
violets  were  fringing  the  copse  and  the  daisies  sprink- 
ling the  meadows  ;  about  the  time  when  spring  was 
slipping  off  her  mantle  of  verdure  into  the  bloom 
of  early  summer.  The  morning  seems  like  the 
memory  0/  a  beautiful  dream,  with  the  hazy  vapors 
hanging  like  incense  over  the  lowlands,  and  the 
purple-tinted  clouds  lying  out  on  the  hill-tops,  where 
the  sun  is  walking  up  the  slope  of  the  sky.  God  is 
displaying  His  art  on  the  blue  canvas ;  only  He 
could  pencil  aught  so  beautiful.  I  sit  by  the  open 
window  and  quaff  the  air  like  rich  wine  from  the 
goblet  of  the  morning ;  my  soul  steals  out  of  its 
dwelling  and  looks  through  mine  eyes.  God's  world 
is  very  beautiful. 

Hark !  I  heard  the  sound  of  wheels  and  hoofs. 
And  surely  that  is  a  carriage  driving  at  such  a 
furious  rate  along  the  road ;  and  now  it  turns  and 
approaches  the  house.  What  can  it  mean  ?  It  draws 
nearer.     I  recognise  Captain  Courtenay.     It  is  some 


MY   LITTLE   CHAEGE.  197 

time  since  Annie  has  been  to  see  me.  Dr.  Wood- 
ruff had  told  me  of  a  secret — a  family  secret  I 
cannot  tell  you.  The  last  time  I  saw  her  she  was 
roseate  with  health  and  happiness,  hanging  on  her 
husband's  arm.  Bat  the  carriage  is  at  the  door. 
He  looked  very  pale  as  he  rushed  np  the  steps ;  he 
whom  I  had  learned  to  look  npon  as  a  brother  since 
he  had  married  my  Annie.  He  did  not  wait  for  cere- 
mony, but  pushing  open  the  door,  he  stood  before 
me.  The  blood  fled  from  my  face  as  I  noted  his 
blanched  cheek,  his  agitated  manner. 

"  For  God's  sake  tell  me  what's  the  matter  ?"  I 
said. 

He  came  over  to  me,  and  placing  his  trembling 
hand  on  my  shoulder,  said,  in  a  low,  hollow  voice : 

"  Come,  quick  ;  she  is  dying  !" 

I  asked  no  more  questions.  Did  I  not  know  by  the 
instinct  of  love  who  "  she"  meant?  My  darling,  my 
love.  Annie  Glyde  dying  !  I  hurried  into  the  car- 
riage, and  we  drove  very  rapidly  over  the  old  road. 
The  beautiful  morning  freshness  had  lost  all  its 
charms  for  me  now.  I  saw  only  the  sweet  face  con- 
torted with  pain  and  suffering.  I  felt  and  heard 
only  the  beating  of  his  great  heart  as  the  shadow  of 
the  coming  event  fell  upon  it. 

We  went  into  the  house — the  great,  grand,  old 
rambling  mansion,  with  its  high  stone  steps.  I  met 
Dr.  Woodruff. 

"  She  is  asking  for  you,"  he  said. 


198  MY  LITTLE   CHARGE. 

How  swiftly  my  feet  fled  to  meet  her  !  I  entered 
the  room,  and  there,  pale,  calm,  and  beautiful  as  evel*, 
lay  the  form  of  Annie  Courtenay,  her  golden  hair 
thrown  like  a  halo  in  scattered  profusion  about  her 
shapely  head — her  little  white  hands  clasped  on  her 
bosom.  She  lifted  her  arms  as  she  saw  me,  and 
throwing  them  about  my  neck,  pulled  me  down  to 
her  and  held  me  close. 

*'  I  shall  die,"  she  said,  positively  and  resignedly. 
"  Have  3'ou  forgotten  my  dream  ? ,  But  I  leave  a 
charge  for  yon,"  and  she  pointed  to  a  little  roseate 
creature,  wrapped  in  a  warm  covering  by  her  side. 
"  Take  care  of  her,  will  you  promise  me  ?  Be  a 
mother  to  her.  I  give  her  to  you  ;  she  is  youi*s. 
You  will  teach  her  to  be  like  yourself — good  and 
noble;  and  some  day  she  will  rise  up  and  bless  you  ; 
and  if  we  know  aught  of  earthly  love  in  heaven,  I 
shall  come  to  you  from  my  home  and  commune 
with  you.     Come  to  me  now  and  kiss  me." 

I  pressed  my  lips  long  and  fervently  to  hers. 
Looking  back,  I  saw  Captain  Courtenay  standing  in 
the  door.  His  face  was  full  of  sufferino;  as  he 
watched  ns  through  his  tears.  I  drew  away  from 
the  bed  ;  he  came  over  and  bent  his  face  so  low 
on  the  pillow  beside  hers  that  I  could  not  see  it. 
His  hair  mingled  with  hers  ;  her  white  hands  were 
clasped  about  his  neck.  They  whispered  so  low  that 
onlv  the  ano;els  could  hear.  She  sicjhedlike  a  weary 
child  preparing  for  slumber.    He  clasped  her  tightly 


MY   LITTLE   CHARGE.  199 

to  liis  bosom,  and  held  her  there  close  in  his  great, 
strong  embrace,  as  if  he  would  keep  her  from 
death.  A  long  and  holy  silence  followed,  during 
which  I  went  out  of  the  room  and  left  them  there 
together — those  two  parting  hearts — alone. 

God  only  knows  what  must  have  been  the  weight 
of  pain  w^hen  those  two  hearts  were  torn  asunder. 
This,  indeed,  was  love  this  side  of  heaven.  He  was 
a  strong  man,  but  at  last  1  saw  his  weakness,  his  great 
unconquerable  love.  I  heard  a  groan,  a  deep  ago- 
nizing cry.  I  dared  not  open  the  door  ;  all  was  again 
still.  I  looked  through  the  aperture,  for  it  stood 
ajar.  His  form  was  prostrate  on  the  bed,  and  he 
was  sobbing  like  a  child.  I  could  not  look.  I 
waited,  and  presently  I  heard  a  slow,  heavy  step  ; 
he  came  out.  He  was  very  white  and  sorrowful- 
looking. 

"  It  is  over,"  was  all  that  he  said,  and  bowing 
his  head,  he  sat  mute  and  still  as  stone. 

I  went  into  the  chamber.  Dr.  Woodruff  had 
returned,  and  he  was  closing  the  eyes  of  the  corpse — 
those  beautiful  eyes,  closing  them  for  ever. 

"  Stop  !"  I  said  ;  "  let  that  be  done  by  me  alone." 
I  stood  and  looked  into  the  soulless  depths.  I 
shuddered  at  the  thought  of  the  absent  spirit ;  but 
was  it  not  away  up  with  the  angels  ?  She  lay  just 
as  he  (her  husband)  had  left  her — her  hands  fallen 
beside  her,  her  hair  somewhat  displaced,  a  smile 
in  her  face  and  a  tear  in  the  corner  of  her  eye.      1 


200  MY    LITTLE   CHARGE. 

performed  the  last  office ;  I  laid  the  white  cover 
over  the  beautiful  face,  and  went  out  weeping  and 
heart-broken.  I  took  her  child — my  child  now.  Oh, 
how  my  heart  yearned  towards  it ;  it  was  flesh  of 
her  flesh  and  bone  of  her  bone  !  I  felt  the  sanctity 
of  the  work  that  was  given  me  to  do;  this  was  in- 
deed a  high  calling — the  education  of  a  soul  for  life 
or  death.  I  carried  the  little  charge  out  to  him  (its 
father).  He  sat  in  the  same  listless  attitude.  He 
did  not  notice  me  until  a  faint  cry  started  him  out 
of  his  gloomy  reverie.  Taking  it  in  his  arms,  he 
kissed  it. 

"  It  is  all  that  is  left  of  her  now.  Annie — call 
her  Annie,"  and  from  that  day  she  has  borne  no  other 
name. 

I  took  them  with  me — the  babe  and  nurse — over 
to  Oak  Side  into  the  new  house  that  had  never 
echoed  with  the  cry  of  a  new-born  babe. 

Sweet  Annie  Glyde,  tliey  took  her  out  and  laid 
her  near  my  father.  I  shed  many  tears  on  that  day  ; 
but,  oh,  there  was  a  keener  grief  than  any  tear  could 
express.  I  felt  a  void  in  life  without  her,  and  if  any 
but  the  angels  had  robbed  me  of  her  I  should  never 
have  said  :  "  It  is  well."  But  her  poor,  miserable 
husband,  was  there  a  cure  for  grief  like  his  ?  1 
saw  his  form  bent  with  agony  over  the  gaping  grave, 
and  almost  forgot  my  own  sorrow  in  contemplating 
his.  It  seemed  as  if  he  could  not  believe  that  she 
was  gone.     Again  and  again  he  looked  down  into 


MY  LITTLE   CHAKGE.  201 

the  dark  cavern,  and  not  until  the  head-stone  was 
Bet  and  the  mound  fashioned  into  form  did  he  desert 
the  spot ;  and  then  with  a  palsied  step  that  frightened 
me.    I  feared  the  result  of  such  a  godlike  grief. 

He  went  home,  but  tlie  old  house  had  no  longer  its 
charm  ;  he  left  it,  and  went  out  to  mingle  with  the 
gayer  world. 

I  heard  from  him   sometimes  during  the  years; 

he  wrote  to   me  about  his  little  Annie,  and  as  soon 

as  the  little  prattler  could  speak  his  name,  I  wrote 

back  the  tidings  to  him.     Then  came  a  present  from 

Paris — a  tiny   little  necklace  and  amulets  of  gold 

set  with  small   diamonds.     To  the   necklace    was 

attached  a  locket,  and  in  it  a   picture.     He  said 

she  must  learn  to -know  him.     I  showed  it  to  her, 

and  the  little  creature  shouted  :  "  Papa,  papa." 

9* 


202  THREE   YEARS  AFTER. 


CHAPTER  XXYin. 

Three   Years  after — Ihe  Proposal — Cousin  Lucys  Lover. 

Three  years  had  gone — swift  sands  from  the  hour- 
glass of  life.  I  was  beginning  to  feel  older.  My 
glass  told  me  that  the  freshness  of  youth  was  no 
longer  mine.  Little  Annie  Courtenay,  with  her 
childish  prattle,  had  grown  into  my  heart  like  moss 
green  and  verdant  on  a  ruin.  My  Cousin  Lucy  was 
again  with  me  to  spend  another  summer.  I  was  glad 
of  this,  for  her  presence  was  a  consolation  and  a  refuge 
from  tho  ennui  that  surrounded  life  at  Oak  Side. 

It  was  a  warm,  sultry  day  in  the  early  sum- 
mer ;  we  had  gone  out  on  to  the  porch  to  get  a 
breath  of  cooler  air.  "We  were  so  busily  engaged 
in  watching  the  playful  freaks  and  antics  of  the  little 
girl,  that  we  had  failed  to  notice  the  approach  of  a 
stranger,  until  suddenly  looking  up,  a  gentleman 
stood  before  us.  He  did  not  wait  long,  but  catch- 
ing up  little  Annie  in  his  arms,  he  pressed  her  to 
his  heart  as  he  showered  kisses  on  her  'face.  She 
struggled  hard  to  free  herself,  but  he  held  her  in  his 
strong  arms,  and  said,  with  a  smile  : 

''  Don't  you  know  papa  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment  bewildered,  and  then 


THREE  YEARS  AFTER.  203 

instinctively  nestled  her  little  sunny  head  down  on 
his  shoulder.  It  was  Captain  Oourtenay,  but  so 
changed  that  I  should  not  have  recognised  him  had 
I  met  him  under  any  other  circumstances.  His 
face  was  shaded  by  a  long,  curling  beard,  and  he 
looked  many  years  older. 

"Am  I  so  changed.  Miss  Klopenstene  ?"  he  asked, 
after  a  warm  greeting  from  me. 

"  You  are  indeed,  sir.  I  should  not  have  known 
you." 

"  I  would  have  known  you,"  he  said.  "  You  do 
not  look  a  day  older  than  when  we  last  met." 

I  smiled.  "  Perhaps  you  have  learned  the  fashion- 
able art  of  flattery  during  your  sojourn  in  Paris, 
Captain  Courtenay  ?" 

He  did  not  like  my  answer. 

"I have  not  learned  to  tell  a  fashionable  falsehood, 
Miss  Klopenstene." 

Lucy  carried  little  Annie  into  the  house,  and  we 
sat  a  long  time  out  there  in  the  summer  noon  talk- 
ing over  the  past  and  the  present.  He  seemed  very 
cheerful ;  only  once,  when  I  mentioned  the  name  of 
his  dead  wife,  did  he  betray  any  strong  emotion. 

"  Your  daughter  looks  very  like  her  mother,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  in  a  vacant,  absent  sort  of 
manner,  "  I  think  she  does." 

A  tear  came  into  his  eyes.  He  came  often  to 
Oak  Side  after  this  ;  he  would  hold  his  little  girl  for 
hours  in  his  arms  and  appear  totally  absorbed  in 


204  THREE  YEAES  AFTER. 

gazing  into  her  ejes ;  they  were  her  niotlier's  eyes. 
I  caught  him  one  day  talking  to  her  of  her  mother, 
and  she  came  directly  to  me,  asking  if  I  was  not  her 
mother,  and  where  heaven  was. 

He  seemed  to  be  pleased,  I  thought,  with  my 
Cousin  Lucy,  for  I  often  found  them  chatting  toge- 
ther ;  and  Lucy  always  blushed  deeply  when  I  came 
suddenly  upon  them  thus.  He  had  invited  her  to 
ride  ;  they  had  gone  to  the  Mills  and  over  to  his 
farm  together.  I  began  to  hope  that  the  maiden 
w^ho  did  not  believe  in  love  was  caught  in  its 
meshes  at  last.  I  was  not  wrong.  I  found  an  old 
withered  cluster  of  violets,  which  I  remembered  he 
had  given  her,  carefully  pressed  and  preserved  in 
a  book  of  hers ;  I  was  glad.  But  he  did  not  seem 
to  treat  her  with  any  more  marked  distinction  than 
he  had  me.  He  invited  me  on  the  same  excursions 
I  invariably  refused,  knowing  that  he  would  then 
ask  Lucy,  who  always  accepted  with  a  proud  glow 
of  satisfaction.  Could  it  be  possible  that  he  did  not 
see  he  was  winning  her  aftections  ?  I  soon  found  the 
key  to  the  mystery.  Lucy  was  jealous  of  me,  and 
perhaps  not  without  reason,  for  whenever  I  was 
present  he  addressed  most  of  his  remarks  to  me  ; 
he  sometimes  sought  me  alone ;  1  avoided  him  ;  I 
strove  to  bring  him  and  Lucy  together.  "Was  I  a 
match-maker?  Perhaps  so.  But  I  knew  that  man's 
future  happiness  depended  on  the  possession  and  in- 
fluence of  a  good  and  true  wife.     Lucy  was  just 


THREE  YEARS  AFTER.  205 

suited  for  liim,  and  it  was  the  dream  of  mj  heart 
to  bring  them  together.  But  I  soon  awoke  to  my 
bhmder.  I  had  urged  him  to  visit  us  frequently  ; 
to  make  Oak  Side  his  home  for  Lucy's  sake.  I  did 
not  dream  of  his  construing  it  differently,  until  one 
morning  he  came  in.  I  was  alone  with  little  Annie. 
She  sought  refuge  on  his  knee,  and  pressing  her  little 
soft  cheek  against  his,  was  cooingin  his  ear  like  a  little 
dove.     Presently  I  heard  her  whisper  half  aloud  : 

"Papa,  where  is  mamma?  Is  Aunt  Mattie  my 
mamma  ?" 

I  smiled  at  the  child's  question ;  but  not  so  Cap- 
tain Courtenay  ;  he  looked  very  serious  as  he  bade 
her  run  into  the  next  room  and  play.  She  left  the 
door  ajar  as  she  went  out,  and  I  heard  Lucy  hum- 
ming an  air  to  herself  in  the  next  room.  She  must 
have  heard  what  he  said  : 

"  You  hsLve  indeed  been  a  mother  to  my  child, 
Miss  Klopenstene."  He  spoke  in  a  very  mattcF-of- 
fact  sort  of  way.  "  Annie  loved  and  trusted  you  ; 
can  you  tf  ust  yourself  with  me  ?  Will  you  come 
home  with  me  as  my  wife  ?" 

I  was  so  completely  surprised  at  the  question  that 
I  could  not  speak  for  some  moments ;  again  did  I 
pity  the  noble  heart  that  I  was  obliged  to  wound 
with  a  repulse. 

"  Captain  Courtenay,  were  I  to  look  about  me  in 
search  of  a  man  with  whoni  to  link  my  fate,  my 
life,  I  could  find  none  more  worthy  than  yourself; 


206  THREE  YEARS  AFTER. 

but  I  have  long  since  resolved  never  to  marry.  I 
shall  die  an  old  maid." 

"  Forgive  me,  then.  I  presumed  too  much.  I 
sliould  have  seen  that  you  avoided  me,  that  my 
attentions  were  not  agreeable  to  you." 

"  As  a  brother  I  have  always  loved  you  ;  as 
a  brother  you  will  always  be  welcome  to  my 
roof;  I  shall  ever  treat  you  as  a  near  relative.  But 
for  the  sake  of  yourself  and  your  little  daughter,  I 
would  advise  you  not  to  remain  single  ;  your  home 
needs  a  woman  to  preside  over  it ;  your  daughter 
needs  the  constant  care  of  a  mother.  Such  I  have 
striven  to  be  to  her ;  but  she  should  be  with  you. 
Forgive  my  presumption,  but  I  have  not  failed  to 
discover  that  a  true  and  noble  heart  has  lavished  its 
affection,  perhaps  unsought,  upon  you." 

He  looked  somewhat  surprised  as  he  said,  quietly  : 

"  It  is  your  Cousin  Lucy  you  speak  of." 

'^Yes ;  a  girl  every  way  worthy  to  fulfil  the  sacred 
duties  of  a  wife  and  mother." 

He  sat  still  and  thoughtful  a  moment ;  he  brush- 
ed the  hair  up  out  of  his  eyes  and  ran  his  fingers 
through  it. 

"  True,  I  had  not  thought  of  that.  You  think 
Lucy  loves  me  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  of  it." 

He  waited  a  moment ;  then  gave  me  his  hand. 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness.  Good  bye,  Miss 
Klopenstene.     God  bless  you,"  and  he  went  away. 


THREE  YEARS  AFTER.  207 

I  sat  there  a  good  while  alone  with  ray  thoughts. 
What  had  he  to  thank  me  for  ?  I  had  done  nothing 
to  deserve  his  thanks,  excepting,  perhaps,  I  had  re- 
fused a  noble  heart  without  wounding  that  heart. 
All  women  have  it  in  their  power  to  send  a  man 
awaj  from  them  thus.  Few  understand  how  to 
refuse  a  heart  without  wounding  its  pride — to  send 
away  the  rejected  with  a  blessing  and  a  prayer  on 
his  lips  for  the  woman  'whom  he  has  lost.  There  is 
too  much  scorn,  too  much  proud  contempt  in  women 
of  the  day  ;  they  look  upon  a  man  as  beneath  them 
who  strives  to  win  where  their  own  hearts  respond 
not.  Many  a  noble  and  manly  heart  has  been 
ruined  for  ever  by  a  harsh  rebuff,  because  it  has 
presumed  to  climb  so  high  as  wealth  and  beauty. 
Many  a  woman-hater  has  been  made  by  a  woman's 
hasty  answer :  "  Begone,  you  are  beneath  jnj  no- 
tice," and  I  think  at  the  day  of  the  final  reckon- 
ing the  name  of  the  coquette  will  stand  near.,  to 
that  of  the  murderer.  The  latter  kills,  and  all  pain 
is  over;  the  former  stabs,  and  leaves  the  rusting 
knife  in  the  living  heart.  What  more  homble  in 
all  the  varied  pictures  of  human  nature  than  to 
see  a  noble  manhood  bowed  at  the  feet  of  a  trifling 
woman,  his  whole  impassioned  nature  prostrate  be- 
fore the>  beautiful  fiend,  while  she  stands  coldly  back 
and  laughs  at  his  folly  !  Oh,  trifler  with  human 
hearts,  great  will  be  the  penalty  that  awaits  such  a 
sin  I 


208      THE   GIRL  THAT  DID   NOT   BELIEVE   IN   LOVE. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

The  Girl  that  did  not  "believe  in  Love  caught  in  the  Meshes — 
The  Lovers. 

I  WENT  into  the  next  room. 

"  Where's  Lucy  ?"  I  asked  of  Mrs.  Whipple,  who 
was  sitting  there,  singing  a  hymn,  with  little  Annie 
asleep  in  her  arms. 

"  She  went  up  stairs  a  while  ago." 

I  went  up  to  her  room  and  entered  softly.  She 
was  lying  on  the  bed,  her  face  hidden  on  the  pillow 
and  her  brown  curls  thrown  carelessly  over  it.  Slie 
was  sobbing,  not  loud  but  low  and  subdued,  her 
little  figure  shaking  all  over.  I  went  up  to  her  and 
placed  my  hand  on  her  head. 

"Why,  Lucy — Lucy,  what's  the  matter  with  you, 
cousin  ?" 

She  clasped  her  hands  tighter  over  her  eyes  to 
hide  her  tears,  but  I  could  see  that  they  were  wet. 

"  Come,  tell  me  what  ails  you  ?"  I  said,  coaxingly. 
But  she  only  sobbed  louder  and  lay  perfectly  still, 
saying  not  a  word.  I  sat  down  upon  the  bedside 
and  took  her  head  upon  my  lap.  She  struggled  a 
little  to  free  herself ;  I  kissed  her  flushed  forehead 
and  smoothed  back  the  hair  from  her  face ;  it  was 


THE  GIRL  THAT  DID  NOT  BELIEVE   IN"  LOVE.      209 

very  red  from  long   weeping.     I  thought  I  knew 
what  was  the  matter,  and  I  determined  to  come  at 

it  at  once. 

"You  are  jealous  of  me,  cousin,  without  reason, 
I  assure  you  ;  come,  confess  that  you  love  Captain 
Courtenay." 

She  lifted  her  head,  and  a  bewildered  look  came 
into  her  eyes. 

"  Are  you  not  to  be  his  wife  ?  Did  I  not  hear 
him  ask  you  to  become  the  mother  of  his  child  ?  Oh, 
tell  me,  it  is  you  he  has  been  seeking  all  this  time 
and  not  me.  I  loved  him — yes,  I  loved  him  ;"  and 
the  little  face  began  to  swell  again  with  grief  and 
sobs. 

"  Come,  now,  let  me  tell  you  all  about  it.  He 
did  ask  me  to  become  his  wife,  but  I  refused  him. 
I  am  to  live  an  old  maid  ;  have  I  never  told  you 
so?     I  am  one  now.     There,  does  that  please  you  ?" 

She  looked  at  me  again  in  a  bewildered  way. 

"You  refused  him;  is  he  not  handsome,  rich,  and 
noble?" 

"  Are  you  sorry  that  I  said  so  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  he  don't  love  me,  and  never  will." 

"Pshaw,  you  have  too  humble  an  opinion  of 
yourself.  I  expect  to  see  you  married  and  the 
mistress  of  his  home  before  a  year.  How  odd  it  is ! 
I  thought  you  did  not  believe  in  such  nonsense  as 
love." 

She   did  not   answer   me   then,   but    her    tears 


210      THE  GIRL  THAT  DID  NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LOVE. 

suddenly  vanished,  and  I  courted  her  into  a  smile. 
Slie  was  a  little  shy  of  him  when  he  came  to  the 
house  the  next  time,  and  I  think  this  very  modesty 
enhanced  her  in  his  eyes,  for  he  strove  to  draw  her 
out  of  it.  He  w^as  a  good  wooer,  a  rare  thing  in 
man.  She  did  not  come  into  the  room  as  usual ; 
but  he  sent  little  Annie  to  tell  her  that  he  wanted 
her,  and  she  came  in  with  the  little  burden  in  her 
arms.  I  knew  tliat  he  was  pleased,  for  he  kissed 
the  little  girl,  who  promptly  refused  to  leave  Lucy's 
arms.  I  soon  managed  an  excuse  and  went  out  of 
the  room,  leaving  them  there  together. 

The  next  I  saw  of  them  was  as  a  pair  of  eques- 
trians floating  down  the  road.  Lucy  was  a  good 
rider,  and  drew  a  strong  rein.  I  had  not  forgotten 
his  objection  to  allowing  Annie  Glyde  to  learn,  but 
Lucy  was  a  much  stronger  person  than  my  little 
dead  angel  had  ever  been,  and  he  need  have  no 
reasonable  fears  for  her  safety.  She  sat  firm  in  her 
saddle,  was  elastic  and  light,  and  she  had  learned 
the  rare  art  of  riding  with  ease  as  well  as  grace.  If 
a  pretty  woman  on  horseback  will  not  charm  a  man, 
his  heart  is  harder  than  stone.  Thus  they  occupied 
the  afternoons,  and  sometimes  the  day  together. 
His  visits  became  more  frequent,  and  I  believe  he 
learned  to  love  her  with  a  true  aifection,  not  with 
the  strong  fervor  of  his  younger  manhood — that  love 
had  gone  out  from  liim,  he  could  never  love  again 
as  he  loved  my  gentle  sister — but  with  a  passive 


THE   GIRL  THAT  DID  KOT  BELIEVE   IN   LOVE.      211 

sort  of  love  tliat  comes  to  iis  in  later  years,  when 
our  passions  are  all  subdued  by  trials  and  the 
weight  of  time.  What  mattered  it  if  he  did  not 
love  with  that  master  passion  ?  his  love  was  great 
enough  to  control  their  lives  and  make  them  live 
in  peace  and  unity  together.  My  cousin  Lucy 
seemed  very  happy,  but  with  it  all  forgot  her  mis- 
chievous sallies  on  Mrs.  Whipple,  upon  whom  Mr. 
Jamieson  still  lavished  his  serious  attentions. 

It  was  a  sort  of  serio-sober  happiness  that  filled 
her  heart  now.  She  would  sit  in  silence  over  her 
hook  for  hours  together  in  a  sort  of  waking  dream. 
The  roses  bloomed  brighter  on  her  cheeks,  her  eyes 
sparkled  with  a  brighter  light.  I  watched  her,  and 
for  the  first  time  thought  her  beautiful.  Love  is 
sometimes  a  great  beautifier  of  woman.  My  cousin 
Lucy  often  fell  into  these  moody  fits  of  silence  new  ; 
I  never  disturbed  them,  for  I  thought  I  knew  the 
cause.  There  must  be  some  great  inward  joy  to 
light  up  the  face  as  hers  was  ;  but  her  little  heart 
could  keep  the  secret  no  longer.  She  came  to  me 
one  night,  and  sat  down  in  a  girlish  fashion  on  a 
cushion  at  my  feet. 

"  Cousin  Mattie,  w^hy  did  you  not 'marry  Captain 
Courtenay  ?" 

It  was  rather  an  abrupt  question,  but  I  was  pre- 
pared to,  answer. 

'*  Because  I  didn't  love  him." 

"  Was  that  all  ?" 


212      THE   GIRL  THAT   DID   NOT  BELIEVE   IN  LOVE. 

"  Yes,  that  is  all  the  reason  I  can  give  you,  for 
he  is  a  very  worthy  gentleman." 

"  Well,  if  father  consents,  I  have  promised  to 
marry  ;  but  I  shall  feel  a  little  grudge  against  you 
for  refusing  him,  he  is  so  good,  so  noble  and  kind." 

*'  I  am  very  glad  you  think  so,. for  that  is  just  my 
opinion  ;  he  will  make  you  a  true  husband,  and  you 
are  just  the  woman  for  his  wife." 

''  But  do  you  think  father  will  like  my  marrying 
a  country  gentleman  whom  he  has  never  seen  ? 
Won't  you  write  to  him  ;  he  will  leave  it  all  to 
you,  I  know  ?" 

I  did  write  to  him,  and  any  father  would  have 
proudly  accepted  such  a  son-in-law  as  I  pictured  in 
true  colors.  Captain  Courtenay  wrote  also.  In  a 
few  days  an  answer  came  to  both ;  he  gave  his 
consent,  which  was  subject  entirely  to  my  approval. 
I  might  revoke  it  if  I  thought  proper  ;  but  why 
should  I  stand  between  the  loving  heart  of  that 
sweet  girl  and  her  lover  ? 

Captain  Courtenay  came  over  to  Oak  Side  one 
evening  ;  we  were  all  gathered  in  the  room. 

"  Have  you  heard  from  your  father.  Miss  Lucy  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  I  have  no  power  in  the  matter," 
said  she,  blushing. 

I  took  her  hand,  led  her  over  to  him,  and  placed 
it  in  his. 

"  Take  her,  Captain  Courtenay,  and  make  her 
happy,  for  she  lies  very  near  my  heart." 


THE  GIKL  THAT  DID  NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LOVE.   213 

He  drew  her  down  beside  him,  she  nestled  close 
np,  he  threw  his  arm  around  her,  and  I  heard  the 
sound  of  the  first  betrothal  kiss  as  their  lips  met.  I 
could  only  distinguish  the  figures  as  they  sat  there 
in  the  summer  twilight.  Mrs.  Whipple  brought  in 
lights ;  I  sat  down  to  the  instrument  and  sang  some 
old  songs  that  I  had  almost  forgotten,  I  so  seldom 
played  them.  There  was  one  that  remained  for 
ever  unsung;  it  was  one  he  had  praised  when  he 
said  in  his  low,  deep  tone  ;  "  It  is  very  beautiful." 
The  words  occurred  to  me  as  I  sat  there  that  night 
in  the  presence  of  those  happy  lovers,  and  yet 
alone : 

"  My  mother,  too,  has  joined  the  throng, 
And  in  the  distance  dim 
I  catch  my  mother's  cradle-song, 
And  hear  my  mother's  hymn." 

Some  English  traveller  has  said  that  the  Ame- 
ricans are  an  unmusical  people,  and  I  think  it  is 
eminently  true^  They  have  not  the  concentration 
to  devote  long  periods  of  time  to  so  tedious  a  study 
as  music,  and  they  are  not  fond  of  it  either.  Occa- 
sionally an  opera,  a  concert,  or  a  vocalist,  stirs 
them  out  from  their  social  firesides  ;  but  they  tire  of 
it.  A  brass  band  within  a  hundred  yards  of  a 
dwelling  becomes  a  "  nuisance  ;"  a  neighbor  with 
musical  daughters  and  a  singing  family  is  com- 
plained of  as  noisy ;  and  no  matter  how  sweet  and 


214     THE   GIRL  THAT   DID  XOT   BELIEVE   IX   LOVE. 

heavenly  may  be  tlie  sound  of  liarp  and  guitar,  you 
find  few  of  them  in  American  homes  ;  they  pre- 
fer a  quiet,  domestic  hfe,  where  the  only  music  is 
that  of  the  prosperous  workshop  and  the  laughter 
and  accents  of  little  children. 


A  LETTER.  215 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

A  Letter— Gone  into  Battle. — The  Gloom.— What  my  Heart  said 
unto  my  Hands. 

John  Day  brought  me  a  letter*  this  morning. 
What  made  my  heart  flutter  so?  Why  did  my 
hand  tremble  and  my  eye  fail  me  as  I  strove  to  read 
its  contents.  I  thought  the  "years  had  cured  me  of 
all  these  things.  I  began  to  think  the  memory  of 
him  had  grown  powerless ;  but  the  grave  in  my 
heart  was  not  deep  enough,  the  stone  rolled  away, 
and  the  disembodied  spirit  of  the  past  stood  resur- 
rected before  me.  I  was  again  the  weak  unstrung 
woman,  groping  about  in  my  helplessness ;  without  a 
stay,  without  a  strong  heart  on  which  to  lean, 
without  a  supporting  human  arm,  I  could  only  gaze 
beyond  my  tears  and  look  up.  Oh,  men,  when  you 
point  the  finger  of  scorn  and  derision  at  the  isolated 
woman  who  struggles  along  in  this  life  alone  in  the 
world  until  the  years  have  bestowed  on  her  the 
title  of  "  old  maid,"  remember  that  her  soul  with 
its  burdens  can  only  sit  down  in  its  loneliness,  wait- 
ing and  bearing;  that  for  her  there  is  no  human 
heart  beating  with  the  sympathies  of  love — she  has 
no  husband,  no   protector;  that  for  her  no   little 


216  A  LETTER. 

cliildren  rise  up,  and  pressing  their  velvety  cheeks 
to  hers,  wliisper  the  consoling  name  of  "  mother  ;'' 
tliat  for  her  life  is  a  vast  desert,  without  one  green 
oasis  for  her  weary  feet,  through  which  slie  is  travel- 
ling alone,  with  the  multitudinous  caravan  of  life, 
out  towards  the  dark  and  gloomy  shores  that  skirt 
the  river  of  death.  1  sat  still  a  long  time  before  the 
pain  went  out  of  my  eyes,  and  I  read  it  with  the 
calmness  that  you  will,  my  reader.  It  was  a  very 
brief  letter.  The  words  were  few,  very  few,  to 
cause  me  so  much  agitation.  It  was  written  in  a 
bold  hand.  I  knew  the  name  that  would  appear  at 
the  end  before  I  broke  the  seal : 

a  ;^j; y ."     (I  caiknot  reveal  to  you  what  he 

wrote  in  that  blank,  in  the  place  of  my  name ;  it 
was  meant  only  for  me.)  "  By  the  time  this  reaches 
you  I  shall  be  on  the  field  of  battle.  God  has 
given  me  health  and  strength,  I  think,  for  a  noble 
strife.  I  go  out  sword  in  hand  to  fight  the  fight  of 
freedom.  My  country  called  me,  and  I  could  not 
stay.  Your  name  shall  be  my  watchword,  and  with 
it  on  my  lips  I  fear  not  death.  Pray  for  me.  I 
think  I  shall  not  come  out  alive,  but  you  are  mine 
and  I  am  yours  in  eternity. 

"  John  Guilderstring." 

This  was  all  I  had  ever  heard  of  him  since  he 
went  out  across  my  father's  threshold  on  a  night 


A  LETTER.  ♦  217 

away  back  in  the  years.  In  pursuing  the  thread  of 
my  story  I  have  not  spoken  of  the  rumors  of  war 
that  came  to  us  from  the  land  of  the  Southern  sun  ; 
how  the  tiny  speck  of  cloud,  not  so  big  as  a  human 
hand,  in  our  political  horizon  had  gathered  strength 
and  might  until  it  had  swollen  into  a  gloom  that 
was  now  sweeping  in  a  stormy  tornado  over  our 
land.  We  had  '^  read  a  fiery  gospel  writ  in  burnished 
rows  of  steel."  The  blighting  horror  of  civil  war 
was  desolating  thousands  of  homes.  The  l^orth 
had  risen  like  a  tardy  giant  from  its  slumbers,  and 
the  weaker  South  lifted  up  her  frail  arms  to  push 
lis  back.  That  sublimest  edict  of  later  civilization 
had  been  penned  and  proclaimed  to  the  remotest 
corner  of  the  land.  The  heart  of  the  slave  leaped 
in  its  chains  as  he  saw  the  glory  of  the  coming 
Lord.  The  plantations  of  rice  and  cotton  were  no 
longer  trodden  by  the  foot  of  a  slave.  All  men, 
black  or  white,  were  virtually  free.  Our  looms 
stood  still  and  waited  for  the  day  when  they  should 
be  fed  with  cotton  resulting  from  free  labor.  The 
shout  on  every  ]!^orthern  and  loyal  lip  was  the  battle- 
cry  of  freedom. 

Far  away  over  the  seas,  in  their  island  home,  the 
English  factory  operatives  were  crying  for  bread, 
and  the  great  British  Lion  was  growling  ominously 
because  of  this  thorn  in  its  paw.  This  strictly 
neutral  nation  was  showing  its  cloven  foot  in  fitting 

out  ships  to  prey  upon  our  commerce.     The  white 

10 


218  A  LETTER. 

sails  of  ships  laden  with  rich  argosies  of  wealth, 
were  espied  on  their  outward-bound  and  homeward 
courses  by  the  merciless  fiends,  the  freebooting 
privateers  ;  and  away  out  in  mid-ucean,  where  no  eye 
but  God's  witnessed  the  tragical  drama,  where  no 
helping  hand  was  near  to  render  aid,  the  noble 
craft,  one  by  one,  were  crackling  in  the  flames  and 
sinking  charred  and  blackened  down  into  the  depths. 
I  am  not  a  politician  ;  I  have  not  even  the  law  of 
nations  bound  up  in  my  brain.  I  will  not  ask  of 
England  and  her  people,  Was  this  law  ?  But  I  only 
ask  of  the  mother  country,  Was  it  justice,  was  it 
neutrality  ?  And  as  soon  as  the  query  leaves  my 
lips,  I  sit  still ;  I  accuse  not,  reproach  not,  but  only 
wait  and  hope  that  the  answer  will  come  back  over 
the  seas  that  it  was  the  action  of  a  few  mean,  sordid 
ship-builders,  lured  on  by  the  hope  of  lining  their 
pockets  with  gold,  and  not  sanctioned  by  one  of  the 
noblest  governments  and  the  most  civilized  people 
on  the  face  of  the  earth. 

This  is  not  a  tome  of  political  wisdom,  and  per- 
haps I  have  gone  astray  in  introducing  the  subject 
into  a  book  like  this.  But  the  present  part  of  my 
story  leads  me  to  descant  on  what  was  occurring  in 
the  political  economy  of  my  country ;  and  I  could 
not  but  pen  a  word  of  truth  on  the  shameful  breach 
of  what  seems  to  me  so  sacred  a  compact  as  the 
profession  of  neutrality  in  a  war  like  ours.  [N^eed  I 
go   on   to   describe    the   painful   scenes   that  were 


A  LETTER.  219 

everywhere  occurring  in  the  length  and  breadth  of 
our, once  happy  land.  Every  American  heart  has 
sat  down  in  painful  agony  to  look  over  the  record 
of  death  "with  a  darkened  vision.  They  listen  in 
vain  for  the  sweet  low  hush  of  the  nation's  hymn — 
that  old  anthem  of  joy  going  up  to  God  in  thanks 
for  peace  and  prosperity ;  but,  like  a  great  wailing, 
sobbing  heart,  they  see  a  nation  sitting  down  like  a 
mourner  in  sackcloth  and  ashes ;  and  ^  voice  goes 
up  like  that  of  supplication  above  the  din  of  the 
conflict :  "  Lord,  have  mercy."  The  woe  of  Egypt 
has  darkened  each  threshold — mothers  crying  for 
their  first-born,  fathers  kneeling  in  agony  on  the 
lone  grave  of  the  soldier  son,  firesides  darkened  by 
the  shadow  of  death,  and  war  weaving  a  shroud 
about  the  nameless  and  homeless.  They  see  a 
nation  that  was  busy  at  the  altar  giving  and  taking 
in  marriage ;  they  see  her  in  the  lurid  flash  of 
war's  charnel-lamp  burying  her  dead.  And  Avhat 
has  all  this  to  do  with  me  and  my  life's  story?  I 
will  tell  you.  I  heard  a  still  small  voice  within  me 
crying,  You  are  alone;  you  have  no  ties  to  keep  you 
back ;  you  have  wealth  at  your  command ;  take  up  the 
half-wasted  thread  of  your  life  and  go  out  to  meet  your 
work.  Tlie  field  is  before  you  ;  the  laborers  are  few  ; 
,the  harvest  has  need  of  many.  I  saw  a  vision  of  my 
sufi'oring  countrymen  ;  I  heard  the  great  discordant 
hymn  of  human  sufi'ering  coming  up  from  the  battle- 
fields and  the  hospitals — the  groans  of  the  dying,  the 


220  A   LETTER. 

cries  of  tlie  wounded  and  tlie  bleeding ;  and  my 
heart  said  unto  my  soul,  Come,  let  us  go  out  together, 
lie  is  calling  us  ;  the  angels  of  faith,  love,  and  charit}', 
beckon  us  ;  come,  let  ns  follow.  "  As  He  died  to  make 
men  holy,  let  ns  die  to  make  men  free."  And  we 
went  out  together,  my  heart  and  I;  we  were  co- 
workers ;  and  when  I  look  back  over  the  scenes  in 
which  we  mingled,  as  I  sit  here  in  my  disabled 
condition,  Isay  unto  my  heart — We  are  happy;  we 
are  soldiers  of  the  Union  ;  we  have  fought  the  good 

fight. 

That  little  boy  with  his  sunny,  curly  head,  who 
looked  up  at  me  out  of  his  glazed  eyes  from  his 
couch  of  pain  and  whispered,  '•'  Mother  has  come," 
and  nestled  his  head  on  my  bosom  —my  bosom,  I 
who  was  childless — mistaking  me  for  his  mother, 
oh,  surely  I  shall  meet  him  beyond  the  river.  And 
that  noble-browed  youth,  strong  in  his  young  man- 
hood, lying  at  death's  shadowy  portal,  a  wounded 
body  but  an  unbroken  spirit,  calling  on  the  names 
of  his  dear  ones — who  made  me  his  amanuensis  that 
he  might  write  the  sad  tidings  to  his  beloved — surely, 
surely,  we  have  not  parted  for  ever.  The  love  that 
sprang  up  in  my  heart  for  these  cannot  be  only  a 
transitory,  earthly  thing,  that  will  not  spring  up 
again  in  eternity. 


MES.  Whipple's  departure.  221 


CHAPTEE  XXXI. 

Mrs.  Whipple's  Departure — News — The  Parting-^Knitting  Sodfcs 
—  Gone  to  the  War. 

Mrs.  Whipple  was  at  last  about  to  leave  the  state 
of  single  blessedness.  Had  I  remained  at  Oak 
Side,  I  know  that  I  should  have  missed  her  fervent 
renditions  of  Watts's  celebrated  Hymns,  as  well  as 
the  labor  of  her  hands.  It  was  a  pleasant,  sunshiny 
morning  when  Mr.  Jamieson  drove  up  to  the  door 
in  his  old-fashioned  English  coach,  adorned  with  a 
coat  of  arms  so  faint  and  indistinct  as  to  have  been 
worthy  of  the  ancient  date  when  his  forefathers  are 
said  to  have  gloried  in  it.  I  never  saw  two  more 
practical,  matter-of-fact  sort  of  lovers.  Mr.  Jamieson 
was  very  attentive  to  the  harness,  and  the  horses  in 
particular,  running  from  side  to  side,  inspecting 
their  shapely  limbs,  and  stroking  their  glossy  manes. 
He  kept  good  horses,  and  kept  them  well — a  great 
recommendation  to  any  man.  He  buckled  a  strap 
here,  and  impatiently  straightened  a  trace  there, 
until  at  last  Mrs.  Whipple  appeared  in  her  stately  and 
stiffly-starched  grandeur.  She  stood  for  some  time 
alone  amid  the  confusion  of  her  innumerable  band- 
boxes and  sundry  trunks.     Her  personal  effects  con- 


222  MRS.  Whipple's  departure. 

Btitdted  hor  only  dowrv ;  she  was  a  tlirifty  woman, 
and  had  accumnhited  a  groat  many.  Wlien  her 
abstracted  and  covetous  lover  spied  her  out  at  last, 
I  think  he  was  glad  to  see  that  her  wardrobe  was  at 
least  so  voluminous. 

They  were  to  have  no  wedding,  but  drive  directly 
to  the  village,  have  the  ceremony  performed,  and  go 
thence  to  her  new  home,  which  Mr.  Jamieson,  with 
his  English  notions,  had  christened  Castle  Jamieson. 
Lucy  laughed  a  good  deal  at  the  figure  cut  by 
the  two  as  they  got  into  the  coach,  with  its  load 
of  baggage  and  elevated  driver.  Mrs.  Whipple 
had  been  a  faithful  servant  to  me  ;  she  had  been 
near  me  ever  since  my  mother  died  ;  and  in  spite 
of  her  eccentricities,  I  had  learned  to  love  her. 
Her  face  was  associated  with  all  that  was  dear  to 
me,  and  I  pressed  her  close  to  my  heart  as  she  went 
awav.  I  onlv  feared  that  she  heard  Lucv's  lauo^h 
when  she  drew  her  great  flaming  handkerchief 
forth  to  dry  her  eyes.  She  went  away  to  her  now 
home,  and  I  do  not  think  that  hor  future  has  been  an 
unhappy  one  ;  at  any  rate,  I  know  that  her  husband 
is  not  disappointed ;  he  had  his  wish — he  gained  a 
good  housekeeper  at  the  Castle  ;  and  as  I  am  drawing 
near  the  close  of  my  story,  let  the  coach  carry  Mrs. 
Whipple,  with  her  oddities,  out  of  our  sight  forever. 

''  No  more  '  Poor  Jerries'  and  Watts's  Hynms  now, 
cousin.  How  we  shall  miss  her,"  said  Lucy,  half, 
soberly. 


MRS.  Whipple's  departure.  223 

I  did  not  answer,  for  I  respected  the  memory 
of  my  old  housekeeper.  Alas!  poor  Lucy's  mis- 
chievous spirit  was  fated  soon  to  be  damped. 
Captain  Courtenay  came  to  Oak  Side  towards 
evening,  and  he  had  startling  news  to  tell.  I  was 
sitting  on  the  porch  with  Lucy  ;  he  asked  to  see  me 
alone.     I  saw  Lucy's  face  pale  as  we  went  in. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news  ?"  he  said. 

"IS"©.  What's  the  matter?  You  look  agi- 
tated." 

"  I  have  reason  to  be  so.  The  enemy  have  crossed 
the  State  border  and  are  ravaging  and  pillaging  the 
country  for  miles  around  them  in  their  onward 
course;  they  are  not  fifty  miles  distant  from  us  now. 
I  have  volunteered  to  take  command  of  a  company 
of  men  who  have  agreed  to  serve  under  me  in  the 
emergency.  I  can't  tell  Lucy.  Will  you  tell  her 
for  me?  She  and  Annie  had  better  be  sent  home 
to  her  father  for  safety,  for  who  knows  how  soon  the 
merciless  foe  may  be  even  here.  I  will  go  out  and 
say  good-bye  to  her  as  usual ;  she  had  better  not 
know  it  until  I  am  gone." 

He  went  to  her,  made  some  excuse  for  absenting 
himself,  kissed  her,  and  lingered  much  longer  than 
was  usual  with  him  in  parting,  and  went  away.  It 
was  a  cruel  blow  for  poor  Lucy,  who  had  so  lately 
learned  the  bliss  of  love.  She  seemed  to  divine 
something  wrong,  for  she  looked  at  me  with  a 
querying  gaze  and  said  : 


224  MRS. 

"  You  must  tell  it  to  me;  I  am  not  afraid  ;  I  cau 
bear  it." 

I  drew  her  head  down  on  my  shoulder  and  told 
her  what  I  had  learned.  It  is  strange  hovv  some 
women,  apparently  weak  and  feminine  in  ordinary 
life,  cau  display  such  grand  masculine  heroism  in 
emergencies.  She  did  not  weep,  did  not  cry  out  or 
tremble  with  fear,  but  merely  said  quietly : 

"  He  knows  best ;  but  if  he  is-  killed  I  shall  never 
marry." 

She  caught  my  arm  as  she  said  this ;  they  were 
my  own  words  to  her  not  long  ago.  I  told  her  that 
it  was  his  wish  that  she  should  return  to  her  father ; 
she  did  not  murmur,  but  the  next  day,  cheerful  and 
uncomplaining,  taking  little  Annie  with  her,  she 
went  away  to  her  father's  house.  But  she  carried 
one  precious  thing  with  her — a  letter  from  her  lover, 
containing  fresh  assurances  of  his  love  ;  for  true  ]oye 
is  so  exactino^  that  it  must  have  new  vows  reocistered 
every  day  as  it  begins  to  feel  a  lack  of  inspiration. 
The  old  house  was  very  lonely  to  me  now,  and  it 
was  at  this  time  that  I  received  an  offer  from  a 
great  and  beneficent  woman,  whose  name  I  shall 
not  mention  here,  to  take  a  post  in  a  hospital  of  my 
native  State.  I  was  quite  matronly  now ;  my  hair 
was  flecked  with  grey  and  silver,  and  I  had  adopted 
the  white  cap  of  my  eldei-s.  I  determined  to  go 
out  and  answer  this  call :  "  Be  swift,  my  soul,  to  meet 
Him  ;  be  jubilant,  my  feet."     I  would  leave  all  my 


MRS.  Whipple's  departure.  225 

affaire  in  tlie  hands  of  John  Day  during  my  absence. 
I  had  failed  as  yet  in  procuring  a  new  housekeeper, 
and  Aunt  Dinah  could  remain  with  John  Diij. 
Uncle  Peter,  the  gardener,  w^ould  have  enough  to  do 
in  keeping  the  grounds  in  order.  It  was  a  summery, 
sunshiny  afternoon  when  the  three  Sweezey  sisters 
sat  in  a  row  knitting,  while  Jemima  gave  me  a 
hundred  old  recipes  of  her  mother  or  great-grand- 
mother, for  the  benefit  of  the  sick  among  whom  I 
was  going.  I  cannot  repeat  one  of  them  now  ;  but 
she  gave  me  much  general  information  that  was  of 
great  service  to  me.  I  had  often  wondered  what 
those  three  sisters  could  do  with  so  many  woollen 
socks,  for  they  were  so  continually  knitting  they 
must  have  accumulated  an  immense  number  since 
I  had  knowm  them.    I  asked  Jemima.     She  said : 

"  Last  week  we  sent  one  hundred  pairs  to  the 

hospital   at   C ,  and   we  are   now   making   up 

another  fifty  for  the  same  place.  Why,  bless  thee,  it 
keeps  me  awake  o'  nights  to  think  o'  the  poor  soldiers 
trudging  along  w^ithout  stockings.  To  think  of  me, 
with  my  crop  of  corns,  marching  for  days  together 
without  stockings.  I  should  have  to  use  a  box  of 
the  patent  Corn-Plaster  every  day  of  my  life." 

Many  days  afterwards,  when  I  stood  over  couches 
of  pain,  misery,  and  suffering,  did  1  look  back  and 
recall  their  pleasant  faces  as  they  sat  there  that 
summer's  afternoon  knitting  socks  for  the  needy 
soldiers.     It  was  not  without  some  grief  that  I  went 

10* 


226  MRS.  Whipple's  departure. 

out  from  my  home,  dear  old  Oak  Side,  for  the  first 
time  in  mj  life  alone.  But  I  hud  arrived  at  tliat 
age  now  when,  if  a  woman  has  not  succeeded  in 
procuring  an  escort  in  the  shape  of  a  husband  or 
protector,  she  is  not  scandalized  by  travelling  alone. 

I  could  have  travelled  all  over  the  North  and 
only  met  with  the  disinterested  acts  of  kindness 
that  American  gentlemen  are  so  noted  for  bestowing 
on  unprotected  and  elderly  ladies. 

I  looked  over  towards  the  old  house  at  the  Pines, 
its  ashes  so  full  of  old  memories.  The  shutters  were 
all  closed  at  Oak  Side ;  and  very  bleak  and  lonely 
looked  the  mansion  of  my  departed  father  as  I  left 
it  that  summer  morning  to  go  out  to  meet,  alas  ! 
I  knew  not  what.  The  perfume  of  the  flowers 
clung  to  me,  and  the  air  from  the  clover-fields  wan- 
dered about  me  and  blew  up  into  my  face.  I  left 
none  mourning  for  me  but  one — yes,  one  good  faith- 
ful heart  in  a  black  casket.  Did  she  weep  only 
instinctively  as  a  dog  cries  for  his  master?  No  ;  I 
think  not.  I  believe  Aunt  Dinah's  heart  held  a 
true  and  deep  aflfection  for  me  ;  and  with  the  kiss  of 
her  black  lips  on  my  hand,  I  went  out  without  a 
mother's  or  a  father's  blessing,  without  a  good-bye  on 
any  dear  lip — alone. 


THE   BATTLE.  227 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

In  the  Hospital — The  Battle — Gaptain   Courtenay's  Wound — 
My  Confession. 

The  dim  and  flaring  lamps  burned  low  as  they 
swung  in  scattered  isolation  in  the  vast  and  silent 
amphitheatre  of  the  soldiers'  rest.  I  was  on  duty 
with  a  corps  of  nurses,  and  as  I  paced  back  and 
forth  through  the  ward,  the  occasional  groan  of 
some  suffering  hero,  the  half-indistinct,  muttered 
whisper  of  some  lisping  dreamer,  the  subdued  sigh 
of  some  weary  heart,  the  groan  of  some  languishing 
and  feverish  soul,  came  up  to  me  like  a  language  of 
misery  from  the  long  row  of  couches  that  stretched 
away,  until  they  seemed  to  grow  small  and  almost 
indistinct  in  the  distance.  My  heart  grew  sick 
when  I  first  heard  these  things ;  but  a  month  had 
passed  in  the  service,  and  I  grew  strong  in  my 
labor. 

"  Cold  water,"  cried  a  once  strong  and  sinewy 
man,  now  weak  and  feverish  on  a  couch,  powerless 
to  help  himself. 

I  handed  him  the  longed-for  drink,  and  as  he 
cooled  his  parched  and  burning  lips,  I  fancied  that 
the  Saviour  must  have  thought  of  the  scorching' 


228  THE    BATTLE. 

heat  of  feverish  delirium  when  he  said  :  "  He  that 
giveth  a  cup  of  cold  water,"  &c.  Dr.  Woodruff 
Avas  there,  and  a  man  over  all  blesse(>  for  ever  he 
must  have  seemed  to  the  sick  and  suifering.  They 
learned  to  know  his  step  ;  they  would  hear  him  enter 
at  the  further  end  of  the  ward;  and  those  at  a  dis- 
tance would  wait  with  signs  of  impatience  for  his 
coming.  Smiles  greeted  him  on  all  sides ;  and  in 
the  dim  and  dark  hereafter,  when  the  silent  lapse 
of  years  shall  have  ushered  him  into  eternity,  I 
think  those  same  smiles  will  greet  him  there.  Verily 
his  reward  will  be  great.  I  had  a  talk  with  him 
that  evening;  he  came  over  to  me;  I  was  bathing 
the  brow  of  a  delirious  patient  at  'No.  23.  That 
was  all  I  knew  about  the  sick  man  ;  he  was  unable 
to  speak  ;  1  only  knew  him  as  Xo.  23.  The  patients 
were  mostly  known  by  the  numbers  that  were 
pasted  over  the  couches  that  stretched  on  either 
side  of  the  vast  pavilion.  I  folded  up  my  napkin, 
for  the  sufferer  had  gone  gently  and  quietly  to 
sleep  under  the  cool  and  soothing  strokes  of  the 
wet  cloth.     I  sat  down. 

"There  are  not  enough  empty  beds,"  said  Dr. 
"Woodruff ;  "  we  shall  soon  have  many  additional 
patients  to  care  for." 

I  trembled  a  little  at  his  words. 

"What!  Is  there  a  battle  raging,  Doctor?"  I 
asked. 

"  IS"© ;  but  before  the  sun  rises  and  sets  again  the 


THE   BATTLE.  229 

blood  of  many  a  brave  heart  will  be  spilled  ;  there 
is  a  battle  impending,  the  terrible  havoc  and  slaugh- 
ter of  which  no  human  tongue  can  fore-picture." 

He  spoke  very  low  in  order  that  the  patients 
should  not  be  disturbed  or  alarmed  by  the  intelli- 
gence. 1  listened  with  a  fearful  intensity  of  interest 
as  he  went  on  : 

"  The  enemy  have  crossed  the  border  and  invaded 
the  homes  of  peace  and  quietude ;  they  seem  to  be 
striking  for  this  city  ;  but  a  strong  and  mighty  army 
has  gone  out  to  check  them,  and  when  the  opposing 
forces  meet,  God  help  the  weak,  say  I,  and  teach 
the  strong  to  be  merciful ;  but  whoever  the  victor 
may  be,  we  have  a  great  work  to  do." 

I  was  very  glad  of  Dr.  Woodruff's  presence— glad 
that  we  had  been  allotted  the  same  ward,  he  was 
so  calm,  dignified,  and  quiet,  amid  all  the  woe  and 
lamentation  that  filled  my  heart  to  bursting;  he 
was  a  stay  to  me,  and  I  learned  to  feel  towards  him 
a  very  close  friendship.  I  was  not  surprised  when 
I  met  him  there  ;  he  was  a  noble  philanthropist, 
and  I  knew  he  would  be  amongst  the  first  to  answer 
the  call  for  aid. 

The  Doctor's  prediction  proved  to  be  founded  on  a 
correct  judgment,  a  keen  foresight  of  the  motives 
that  swayed  the  two  armies.  On  the  morning  of 
the  third  day  we  heard  a  faint,  indistinct  sound, 
like  muffled  and  distant  thunder  ;  it  swelled  into 
a  jarring    and    mighty  conflict    of    sounds,    until 


230  THE   BATTLE. 

my  heart  stood  still,  and  I  was  seized  with  a 
desire  to  stop  my  ears  and  shut  it  out.  I  ima- 
gined I  heard  the  cries  of  the  wounded  and 
dying;  I  could  distinguish  curses  and  prayers,  the 
clash  of  arms,  the  booming  of  cannon,  amid  the  din 
of  the  conflict.  My  face  was  very  white  when  the 
ambulances  came  up,  like  hearses,  with  their  living, 
suffering  burdens,  one  after  another,  to  the  hos- 
pital door.  Bloody  haversacks  were  scattered  about 
on  the  crimsoned  floor  ;  bayonets  were  lying  about, 
reddened,  perchance,  with  the  life-blood  of  some- 
body lying  stark  and  stiff"  out  on  the  battle-fleld. 
Here  was  a  plumed  hat,  dusty  and  begrimed,  and 
there  a  stained  sword,  with  no  one  to  claim  them. 
Did  I  shudder  at  the  strange  and  novel  sight  for  a 
woman — the  horribly  mangled  bodies,  bleeding  and 
broken,  like  frail  reeds  in  the  storm,  that  were  car- 
ried in  and  laid  out  on  the  pallets  before  me?  Yea, 
I  was  sick  unto  death ;  only  the  invisible  arm  that 
encircled  me  kept  up  my  fainting  courage.  In  that 
moment  of  confused  terror  I  felt  a  sublime  faith 
getting  the  better  of  fear.  I  stood  firm  as  a  rock, 
quenching  the  flowing  blood  as  Dr.  "Woodruflf  probed 
the  bleeding  wounds  and  bound  up  the  bruised  and 
broken  limbs.  I  flinched  not ;  and  if  there  is  such 
a  thing  as  deserting  one's  individuality  entirely,  I 
had  lost  my  identity.  I  was  no  longer  Martha  Klo- 
penstene;  I  was  merely  a  passive  instrument  in  the 
hands  of  God,  which  He  was  using  for  His  own 


THE   BATTLE.  231 

purposes.  I  felt  like  a  disembodied  spirit ;  I  wished 
for  wings  that  I  might  fly  more  swiftly  to  meet  my 
destiny.  But  presently  I  was  brought  back  to 
myself.  A  new  comer  was  brought  into  the  ward  ; 
I  was  first  attracted  by  the  dress  that  proclaimed 
him  an  officer. 

I  went  over  to  him,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Dr. 
Woodruff.  A  glimmer  of  the  truth  was  just  dawn- 
ing on  ray  mind,  when  Dr.  Woodruff  exclaimed, 
with  some  emotion : 

"  My  God  !  it's  Courtenay." 

It  was  indeed  my  cousin  Lucy's  lover,  but  he 
looked  very  unlike  the  man  I  had  seen  go  out  from 
Oak  Side  a  short  time  back.  His  face  was  black- 
ened and  disfigured  by  powder,  his  beard  singed 
and  charred  to  a  crisp,  and  a  crimson  pool  had  ga- 
thered at  his  side,  into  which  a  little  stream  of 
blood  was  trickling  down  from  his  left  arm.  He 
was  so  exhausted  from  the  loss  of  blood  that  he 
was  entirely  helpless ;  but  he  smiled  his  thanks  as 
we  lifted  him  up  and  assisted  him  to  a  couch, 
where  we  dressed  his  wound.  I  was  sorry  to  hear 
Dr.  Woodruff  say  that  his  arm  was  broken,  and  in 
such  a  shocking  manner  that  he  would  be  disabled 
for  life.  It  would  never  again  be  supple  and  pliant, 
but  a  stiff,  dead,  and  nerveless  thing.  We  applied 
anodynes,  for  he  was  in  much  pain,  and  we  finally 
left  him  asleep  to  go  and  attend  others  waiting  for 
our  help. 


232  '  THE    BATTLE. 

It  was  a  sublime  sight  to  see  that  bevy  of  women, 
like  ministering  spirits,  waiting  on  strong  men,  now 
laid  low  and  lielpless.  All  that  day  tliey  came, 
ambulance  after  ambulance  of  wounded,  and  still 
we  took  them  in. 

It  was  towards  evening  when  Dr.  Woodruff  came 
over  to  me  again  : 

"  Courtenay  is  awake,  and  is  asking  for  you,"  he 
said. 

I  went  over  to  him.  His  first  question  was  of 
JjXicy.    Was  she  well  ? 

"  Don't  tell  her  about  this ;  I  will  go  to  her 
myself  when  I  am  better." 

I  promised  not  to  mention  his  mishap  in  writing 
to  her,  as  I  did  occasionally.  He  looked  at  me  a 
moment,  as  if  studying  my  power  of  endurance. 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  he  said  abruptly, 
and  stopped,  as  if  hesitating  whether  to  impart  it 
or  not. 

I  stood  pale  and  still,  looking  right  down  into 
his  calm,  truthful  eyes.  I  trembled  a  moment,  a 
faintness  came  over  me,  my  knees  clung  together, 
but  I  did  not  sink  to  the  earth.  I  think  I  read  his 
thoughts  in  his  eyes.  What  meant  that  pitying 
look,  that  expression  of  sorrowful  commiseration  ! 
He  took  hold  of  my  hand,  in  his  brotherly  manner, 
and  held  it  tight  as  he  said:     '^I  have  seen  him^ 

Need  I  have  asked  who  ?  But  I  did  ;  I  must  have 
the  certainty. 


THE   BATTLE.  233 

"  Who  ?" 

"  John  Guild erstring." 

My  hand  shook  in  his  as  he  went  on  : 

"  He  fought  nobly  and  bravely  ;  I  saw  him  in  the 
hottest  of  the  battle  ;  he  once  saved  my  life  by 
coming  between  me  and  an  uplifted  bayonet ;  and 
to  me  he  told  a  secret — the  secret  of  his  love  for  you." 
He  dropped  his  voice  lower  as  he  asked :  "  And 
this  is  why  you  never  married  ?" 

I  put  my  head  down  to  his  ear ;  I  had  never  told 
mortal  man  the  secret ;  he  asked  it ;  he  was  my 
brother,  and  I  whispered  it  with  a  throbbing  heart 
as  I  said :    "  It  is." 


234  THE   PARTING. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

TJie  Enemy's  Retreat — Number  23 — William  Harthss — /  have 
told  God  only— In  his  Arm^—The  Meeting  of  Lips  and  the 
Parting  on  the  Shores  of  Time. 

I  PITT  the  human  heart  that  could  pulse  in  the 
midst  of  what  Avas  occurring  about  me  and  not 
shrink  within  itself.  The  low  depressed  moans,  the 
thrilling  cries,  the  groans  of  men  maddened  with 
pain,  the  horrible  chorus  of  human  suifering  and 
misery,  must  have  gone  up  to  the  ear  of  Christ,  Oh, 
if  He  could  only  have  walked  again  on  the  waves  of 
discord,  and  said  unto  the  storm  of  passions  :  "  Peace, 
be  still!" 

We  heard  the  distant  boom  of  artillery  at  inter- 
vals throughout  the  night;  there  was  a  lull  in  the 
remote  strife,  and  presently  the  welcome  cry  came 
up  from  the  street:  "They  fly!  they  fly  !  We  pur- 
sue !" 

I  was  weary  with  the  exhaustion  of  so  long  con- 
tinued labor.  Kature  began  to  assert  her  power 
and  her  right.  I  was  almost  asleep.  I  started  up  at 
the  cry  and  went  out.  I  met  Dr.  Woodruff.  He 
was  busy  superintending  the  removal  of  some 
wounded  from  an  ambulance  that  had  just  come  up 
from  the  scene  of  the  conflict.      Those  who   were 


THE  PARTING.  235 

brought  in  now  were  bruised  and  mangled  much 
more  terribly  than  the  first.  It  was  after  battle,  and 
these  were  unable  to  help  themselves  or  cry  out  for 
assistance.  Dr.  Woodruff  put  his  hand  over  my  eyes 
as  I  came  up. 

"  Go  in,"  he  said  ;  "this  is  not  a  fitting  sight  for 
you." 

Captain  Courtenay  had  recovered  so  far  as  to  be 
about,  with  his  arm  resting  in  a  sling;  and  ofiering 
me  his  strong  arm,  he  led  me  in  again. 

''  You  must  be  very  weary,"  he  said. 

"  Xo,  I  do  not  feel  tired  in  the  least ;  there  is  a 
stimulus  in  what  is  occurring  around  me  that  braces 
me  np." 

We  went  over  towards  my  patient  at  N"o.  23  ;  he 
was  much  better,  and  began  to  take  some  interest  in 
what  was  going  on.  He  looked  at  me  very  closely 
a  moment,  and  said  in  a  low,  weak  voice  :  "  Excuse 
me,  madam,  for  my  scrutiny,  but  I  have  surely  seen 
your  face  somewhere  before." 

I  thought  he  might  have  seen  me  in  his  delirium, 
and  the  memory  of  my  face,  as  it  appeared  to  him 
then,  was  what  he  remembered. 

"  I  have  been  near  you  in  your  illness  ;  of  course 
you  must  have  seen  me  then." 

"  Ko,  no  ;  I  have  seen  you  elsewhere  ;  let  me  see. 
Were  you  ever  at — Hopkins's  Mills  ?" 

I  started  at  the  question.  "  Yes,  I  have  been 
there  frequently." 


236  THE   PARTING. 

"  Do  you  remember  taking  a  boat  ride  with  an 
acquaintance  of  mine  several  years  ago?" 

"  I  do,"  I  answered,  with  emotion  ;  "  and  you — 
your  name  is  AYilliam  ILirtless?" 

"It  is  the  same.  Perhaps  I  am  impudent,  but 
forgive  the  question — Did  you  marry  that  man  ?" 

I  must  have  looked  very  white,  for  Captain 
Courtenay  lent  me  his  support  as  I  answered, 
"No." 

"Thank  God  for  that !"  he  exclaimed.  "It  has 
been  the  sorrow  of  my  life  since  then  that  I  did  not 
expose  the  secret  to  you  as  a  warning  ;  but  now  it 
is  well.  It  was  I  w^ho  burned  his  house  to  ashes. 
I  thought  it  was  his  ;  but  it  was  a  sorry  mistake,  for 
the  house  belonged  to  your  worthy  father.  But  that 
man,  he  has  ruined  my  life ;  he  poisoned  the  heart 
of  the  girl  that  I  loved  ;  he  killed  her,  murdered  her 
— the  villain " 


He  spoke  vehemently,  his  face  inflamed  with  pas- 
sion. I  lifted  up  my  hands  ;  I  spoke  very  fiercely, 
I  guess,  for  the  man  obeyed  me. 

"  Stop,  stop  !  For  God's  sake  say  no  more  !  I  know 
it  all ;  the  secret  is  mine  !" 

Again  I  felt  the  need  of  a  strong  arm  to  keep  up 
my  fainting  soul  and  aid  me  in  these  hours  of  trial. 
Alas  !  I  knew  not  half  the  day,  the  cruel  day,  was  to 
bring  forth.  Captain  Courtenay  led  me  to  a  chair 
and  went  away.  I  sat  there  a  long  time  with  my 
face  pressed  in  my  hands.     Was  I  dreaming  ?     No, 


THE   PARTING.  237 

it  could  not  be  a  dream.  It  was  too  disrinct,  too 
earthly,  to  come  from  so  ethereal  a  source.  I  heard 
some  one  saj-  ;  '*  God  help  her  !  For  heaveii't^  sake 
don't  let  her  see  him,  Doctor!  Take  him  up  genrly," 
It  was  Captain  Courtenay's  voice.  All  animation 
seemed  to  be  suspended,  and  for  a  moment  I  was 
dizzy.  My  soul  knew  who  tliat  "him"  and  "her" 
meant,  but  a  great  calm  settled  down  in  my  heart 
as  I  slowly  drew  my  hands  away  from  my  eyes. 
The  first  thing  I  saw  was  a  tall  form  stretched  npon 
a  pallet.  The  face  was  turned  from  me,  design- 
edly I  think.  They  had  removed  his  uniform,  but 
from  the  care  bestowed  upon  him,  I  thought  it  was 
an  officer  of  some  rank.  I  saw  a  small  crimson  spot 
on  the  white  bosom  of  the  shirt,  and  I  think  the  sen- 
sations that  came  over  me  then  were  just  about  the 
same  as  he  must  have  experienced  when  the  leaden 
messenger  passed  through  his  body. 

"  Don't  come  here.  Miss  Klopenstene  ;  I  beg  of 
you,  don't  come  near  the  patient !" 

Captain  Courtenay  came  up  and  offered  me  his 
arm ;  but  alas  !  I  heard  not,  saw  not,  heeded  not.  I 
had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  pale  and  ghastly  fea- 
tures. It  was  he,  John  Guilderstring.  His  soft, 
wavy  brown  hair  was  clotted  with  coagulated  blood. 
I  went  up  and  brushed  it  off  the  pale  brow.  I 
think  I  lived,  moved,  spoke,  and  acted  my  part 
mechanicalty. 

"  Will  he  live  ?"  I  asked,  so  coolly  and  calmly,  that 


238  THE   PAKTIXG. 

botli  the  Doctor  and  Captain  looked  at  me  with  sur- 
prise. 

''I  think  not,"  said  Doctor  Woodruff,  candidly. 
"I  fear  the  ball  has  pierced  his  lungs." 

I  stood  there  like  a  statue,  cold  and  still,  looking 
at  the  Doctor  while  he  probed  the  wound,  every 
probe  of  the  instrument  going  down  as  deep  into  my 
own  heart  as  it  did  into  the  lacerated  flesh  ;  but  it 
was  useless.  They  soon  discovered  that  it  had  passed 
entirely  through  the  body,  and  gone  out  on  the  other 
side.  He  lay  like  one  already  under  the  shadow  of 
death,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  almost  impercep- 
tible motion  of  his  chest,  I  should  have  thought  him 
dead.  But  the  Doctor  was  indefatigable  in  his  exer- 
tions to  restore  life,  and  presently  the  breath  became 
more  regular,  the  lips  parted,  the  blood  came  up  into 
the  livid  cheeks,  his  eyes  opened,  and  as  they  fell 
on  me  he  closed  them  again,  as  if  to  assure  him- 
self that  he  was  awake.  He  spoke  my  name  very 
pitifully  ;  there  was  no  reproach  in  his  tone. 

"  Martha,  Martha  !  What !  you  here  ?" 

I  heard  Captain  Courtenay  say  hurriedly  :  "  Come 
away,  Doctor,  and  leave  them  alone." 

I  waited  until  they  were  gone,  and  then  I  went 
over  to  his  bedside.  He  caught  my  hand  and  held 
it  firmly  in  his  as  he  said : 

"  I  shall  not  live  long,  my  love,  my  life  ;  but  you 
will  come  to  me  in  eternity,  will  you  not  ?  You  pro- 
mised me,  you  know  ;  have  you  forgotten  it?" 


THE   PARTING.  239 

I  stooped  down  lower  and  lower  as  he  went  on. 

"  Did  you  ever  love  me,  Martha  ?  Say,  oh,  say 
it  now !  Tell  me  before  I  die.  I  shall  not  linger 
many  minutes.  It  will  be  a  glorious  thing  to  carry 
into  eternity.     I  shall  be  happier  if  I  know  it !" 

1  stooped  down  until  his  hair  brushed  my  cheeks. 

"  Yes,  I  love  you.  I  have  told  God  only  how 
deeply  I  have  loved  you." 

His  eyes  lighted  up  with  a  heavenly  smile  as  he 
drew  me  down  closer,  closer,  until  our  lips  met. 

Only  One  knoweth  what  he  said  to  me  then  and 
what  I  whispered  to  him. 

"  My  wife  now,"  he  murmured.  "  Yes,  you  are 
mine  now,  mine  now  !  But  tell  me,  Martha,  why 
you  would  not  marry  me;  tell  it  me  yourself  again. 
I  know  it,  but  tell  me  in  your  own  sweet  voice;  and 
then  tell  me  that  you  forgive  me." 

I  spoke  very  low. 

"  John  Guilderstring,  I  never  married  you  because 
of  one  fatal  error  of  your  youth.  You  know  it.  I 
forgive  you  now,  as  I  have  long  since  forgiven 
you." 

His  arms  were  very  weak  now,  but  he  pressed  me 
to  his  bosom  in  a  closer  embrace,  until  suddenly 
they  relaxed,  and  he  murmured  in  a  low  tone,  half 
whisper : 

"  Martha — mine — mine  in  eternity  !" 

I  rose  up.  He  Avas  dead.  And  now  let  the  cur- 
tain of  eternal  silence  fall  upon  the  last  scene  of  a 


240  THE   PARTING. 

life  wliicli,  but  for  its  one  early  error,  might  have 
had  a  high  and  hol}^  aim. 

1  found  myself  no  longer  ahle  to  fulfil  my  duties. 
The  events  of  the  last  few  days  had  so  shattered  my 
health  that  I  was  completely  prostrated.  I  went 
away  with  Captain  Courtenay  ;  but  the  sound  of  his 
funeral  march  went  with  me,  the  pall  w^as  on  my 
heart,  the  pale  face  looking  up  at  me — the  pale  face 
of  him — the  lonely  spot  where  we  buried  him  ;  and 
I  could  only  look  up  beyond  to  the  smiling  face  be- 
hind the  cloud,  and  listen  to  a  voice  which  said:  "I 
have  forgiven  his  sin." 


life's  afternoon.  241 


CHAPTER  XXXIY. 

Life's  Afternoon— Conclusion. 

A  Year  has  slipped  away— a  swift  bead  from  the 
rosary  of  time— since  I  came  out  of  the  furnace  of 
lierj  trial.  I  am  older  now  as  I  sit  here  by  the 
open  casement.  You  would  not  know  me,  so  thickly 
has  the  grey  mingled  itself  in  with  the  black  of 
earlier  years.  It  is  a  summer's  day  ;  the  honey-bees 
are  murmuring  pleasant  things  to  themselves  in  the 
garden  as  they  glide  in  and  out  of  the  flowers, 
stealing  the  sweets  from  the  red  hearts  of  the  roses  ; 
and  the  liumming-birds  come  on  golden  wings, 
reaching  their  long  bills  and  purple  necks  into  the 
trumpet  flowers  and  honeysuckles. 

I  feel  very  tranquil  as  I  sit  down  here  at  Oak 
Side  in  the  afternoon  of  life,  looking  back  over  the 
glistening  milestones  on  the  journey,  and  the  bur- 
dens that  I  bore  in  the  heat  of  the  day. 

I  gave  a  dinner-party  yesterday.  It  did  my  soul 
good  to  see  the  happy  and  smiling  faces  that 
clustered  around  my  board.  Captain  Courteuay 
and  Cousin  Lucy  were  there,  happy  in  the  bliss  of  a 
life-union.     Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jamieson  sat  opposite,  and 

11 


242  life's  afternoon. 

I  tliink  the  latter  liad  forgotten  to  mourn  her  "  poor, 
dear  Jerry"  in  her  new  state. 

The  three  Sweezey  sisters  also  partook  of  the 
repast.  A  few  more  wrinkles  have  gathered  on 
Jemima's  stately  brow,  but  she  is  yet  a  hale  and 
cheerful  woman  at  sixty.  I  think  she  'remembers 
still  the  old  feud  about  the  cabbage,  and  I  was  very 
careful  that  Dinah  should  not  place  any  before  them. 
Dr.  Woodruff  was  not  there ;  he  was  still  away  on  a 
mission  of  mercy  in  some  distant  hospital.  Dr. 
Thornton  was  suddenly  called  to  see  some  remote 
patient,  and  may  he  have  pity  on  the  poor  victim. 
Miss  Swanson, -the  city  belle  and  flirt,  was  at 
last  caught  like  a  silly  fly  by  some  wily  spider. 
She  had  married  a  worthless  wretch  who  soon  made 
away  with  her  dowry,  and  gone  back  in  grief  and 
mortification  to  her  father's  house. 

Deacon  Mudge  occupied  the  seat  where  my  pool 
father's  face  was  always  seen  in  days  lang  syne. 
There  were  but  two  more  missing  from  that  famous 
and  remarkable  dinner  of  thirteen.  He  was  not 
there.  And  the  frail  girl,  that  living  dream  of 
beauty,  my  beloved  sister,  she  was  not  there.  Is 
that  not  she,  that  little  snnny  creature  seated  by  my 
side?  Those  are  Annie  Glyde's  eyes,  her  hair- 
but  no,  she  is  too  robust ;  she  has  her  mother's 
features,  but  inherits  the  hardier  nature  of  her 
father.  She  refuses  to  leave  me  ;  she  has  been  with 
me  since  my  return  to  Oak  Side,  and  I  love  her  with 


243 

some  of  that  great  indissoluble  affection  which  1 
had  for  the  sweet  girl  I  met  at  Hoylestown,  away 
back  in  the  years,  the  memory  of  whose  sweet  face 
and  gentle  spirit  looms  up  and  will  linger  with  me 
as  long  as  God  gives  me  a  heart  to  remember. 

And  now  you  will  ask  me  why  I  wrote  this  book? 
I  did  write  it  with  a  purpose.  Perhaps  it  was  to 
show  how  a  great  overshadowing  evil  in  the  society 
of  the  present  age  might  be  corrected.  If  a  woman 
loses  her  balance  and  falls  into  the  abyss  of  in- 
famous shame  and  sin,  she  is  shunned  as  a  foul  and 
deadly  thing  ;  her  name  is  no  longer  pronounced  in 
the  circle  where  she  may  have  once  been  the  bright 
and  particular  star.  Virtuous  men  do  not  seek  her 
society  nor  link  their  fates  with  hers ;  but,  like  a 
leper,  she  is  cast  out  with  her  taint  to  struggle  a 
little  while,  to  wander  like  a  vagabond  over  the 
face  of  the  earth — and  die. 

Look  on  the  other  picture,  and  contrast  the  two.  A 
man,  the  very  man  who  seduces  from  the  high  and 
holy  path  of  virtue,  comes  away  from  the  accom- 
plishment of  his  hellish  wor]^  and  goes  into  the 
drawing-rooms  of  virtue  and  respectability ;  no 
shadow  rises  up  like  a  spirit  of  retribution  to  whisper 
the  scandal.  If,  perchance,  his  sin  is  echoed  about, 
how  leniently  he  is  looked  upon  ;  and,  with  shame 
I  say  it,  many  a  virtuous  and  noble  woman  has 
bestowed  her  hand  upon  such  a  man  while  knowing 
of  his  sins ;  they  are  only  follies  which  are  passed  over 


24A  life's  AFTERNOON". 

and  gone  ;  he  will  live  a  better  life.  But  moral 
works  of  fiction  are  not  the  pLace  for  sermons;  and, 
perchance,  if  my  reader  has  failed  to  perceive  the 
moral,  I  shall  equally  fail  in  pointing  it  out. 

The  twilight  deepens,  the  sun  is  sending  back  her 
argosies  of  clouds  laden  with  the  tints  of  lands 
beyond  tlie  setting  portals.  I  see  a  ladder  in  the 
purple  glow  stretching  up  to  the  rim  of  the  golden 
suffusion  that  fills  the  sky ;  and  my  thoughts,  like 
spirits,  ascend  and  descend  in  a  silent  communion 
with  the  dim  land  beyond  its  borders. 
.  The  bees  have  hummed  themselves  to  sleep,  the 
birds  have  gone  to  their  nests,  darkness  creeps  into 
the  window-pane  and  obscures  my  vision,  and  I 
must  close  for  ever  the  story  of  John  Guilderstring's 
Sin. 


THE   END. 


1864. 


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RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Wi  liner 
908 


